Hellboy: Aftershock
by Azudarko
Summary: Can anyone break Hellboy out of his year-long depression, after the death of Liz Sherman? One would hope, given the increasingly desperate situation...WARNING: May contain sort-of,kind-of akward slash . . .probably. HB/John. Hope that doesn't ruin it!
1. This Sinking Boat

"Bullshit," the young man said, his eyes narrowed and his posture sinking slightly, defensively.

"Mr Myers," the older man sitting opposite of him said, lowly, "I'm going to ask that you choose a less . . .spoiled teenager tone when you actually address a white house official. This shit flies for Hellboy, nobody expects more of him, but it won't for you. You're a goddamn FBI agent, start acting like it."

Myers turned a little red at the insult his fists balling under the table, before relaxing, letting out a small sigh. Manning was right. One year, post-Moscow, and the young agent looked almost exactly the same, albeit a bit more weather-worn, given the scars that still resided from the events of his capture a year ago, though faded greatly now, barely visible. His face was still even and boyish, devoid of facial hair (a fact that more experienced agents, and Hellboy, never let him live down). His hair was combed downwards, parted, and gelled. Myers always had been a creature of habit. Now, though, given the situation, his normally calm and aw-shucks demeanor was shaken.

He was seated at a long table, in one of the three conference rooms that the BPRD rarely used, with the exception of a meeting with the top brass. This was one of those situations.

"S-sorry . . .but you know what's at stake. It's my job to protect him and . . ."

"Protect him from what, Myers? Dust bunnies? He hasn't left his damned lair-"

"Room. His room."

"Fine. His _room_ for the past two weeks. And he hasn't left the damn premises in longer than that."

Manning too had remained much the same, still as pomp and business-like (and bald) as ever. Though, notably, his behavior had shifted greatly post-Moscow. Since the event with Kroenen, which Manning had not hesitated to relate in detail to anyone that would listen (and several newbie agents that had little choice), there seemed to be a new found respect, a new and more powerful connection between Manning and the Bureau. And between Manning and Hellboy.

"Show's what you know."

Manning raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what do I not know?"

John shakes his head, glancing over his shoulder where a camera was recording their conversation. He turned to Manning, mouthing the word "her." There was a nod, and an understanding.

"Regardless. It's becoming harder and harder to justify paying for his sorry red ass, Myers. You know it as well as I do."

"He's recovering! He still needs time!"

"You think I don't know that? Listen, we all loved Liz, but he needs to-"

"Stop. Now."

Manning did, seeing the way that John shifted, immediately slightly more aggressive in his posture at the young flame wielder's name. "You don't want to talk about that to me."

Manning nodded, again understanding. "Still. You know I'm right. What has he done in the past year that we can actually _show _the higher ups?

"There was Moscow . . ."

"Moscow was a year ago, Myers. And besides, what the hell did we get to show for it? All that was left was some monster guts, some scorch marks, and two dead Russians. If you want to find some way to explain to D.C. how that all equates to a plot to open the gates of hell, then be my guest. But keep in mind," Manning lowered his voice, leaning in, "that would also require explaining how our mutual friend is a walking, breathing hell-key, wouldn't it?"

Myers looked, for a moment, like he had a witty retort. Or anything, anything to respond with. He didn't, though, and instead sunk back into a surly pose. Hellboy had, consistently, provided less and less material over the past year for John to work with in his defense.

"So . . .what should I do?"

Manning sighed, shaking his head.

"I don't know. Hellboy . . .what's left of him, anyway, he just . . . his uptake just can't be justified, not with him like this. He doesn't talk. Barely moves unless it's nescasary. And more importantly, doesn't work. If D.C. can't find a reason to keep footing the bill for his care . . ."

"Just tell me what I have to do, Sir. Anything."

Again, Manning shook his head, reaching up to kneed at his forehead.

"The way I see it, there are two options. Either you get Hellboy up and running again, or . . .maybe, if you can convince them that certain . . .cuts," he gave Myers a hard look, "in payroll could compensate for the costs of keeping a 6'5" demon in check."

Myers flinched at the word. He knew that it was true enough, that Hellboy was a demon. But he didn't like the word. It was like calling Abe a merman, or Liz . . .well, it just wasn't right. They were people, and nothing on Earth could convince him otherwise.

"I understand. How long do I have?"

Manning sighed, standing up and moving to the door of the small conference room, his hand still resting on the back of his head and a tired expression on his face.

"I can get you twelve hours. Tops. After that, you're going to have to meet with him yourself. That's all I can give you."

Myers shook his head.

"You're not giving it to me. But thanks."

Manning nodded, and exited, presumably moving to go find the Washington official, to buy for time. Myers, on the other hand, set out in a different direction. To find Red. Halfway down the hall leading to Prof. Bruttenholm's lab he stopped, taking a moment to slam his fist into the wall. "Fuck Moscow," he thought to himself, "damn it all to hell . . ."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A shaking hand reached out, tentatively, to brush a stray lock of hair from her soft, still face. Even now, lifeless and silent, she was beautiful. No wonder he loved her.

Myers leaned against the stone wall of the foul place, the air putrid and sickly with the stench of death and decay. Hellboy was gone, off to fight the unstoppable evil that had been birthed in this place. And what was he supposed to do? 'Look after her?' He felt his throat tighten up, and he had to fight to suppress the tears. What was he supposed to do now? She was gone, gone and dead, and there was nothing he could do for her. Nothing he could do for Hellboy. He pulled her body, now lacking any body heat at all, feeling sickeningly cold compared to the quite literal fire that had once burned within, close to him. He felt a tear slip from his eyes, and several more followed after that. The salty liquid burned at the cuts and scrapes covering his face, still fresh from that Nazi bitch's assault. He wrapped his arms around Liz's form, trying hard to transfer some of his heat back into her.

Down the hall the sounds of battled echoed, grunting and screeching and smashing, the sound of demon vs. bigger demon threatening to tear the whole place down to it's foundation with the strength of their volume alone. Myers clenched his eyes shut, trying to stifle the flow of tears. He had to be strong. He had to look after Liz. Especially . . .if Hellboy . . .

More tears, as he pressed his face into the top of her head, whispering softly to her.

**-SMASH- **

Hellboy was losing.

"Please wake up, Liz . . ."

**-SMASH-**

John was useless. Weak.

"We need you."

**-SMASH-**

The entire building shook with it's force.

"He needs you . . ."

**-SMASH-**

A push of dust came from the ceiling from the force of the creature's assault.

"For him . . .please . . ."

And then, like an atom bomb, the sound of an explosion tearing through flesh, surely powerful enough to shake the surrounding countryside, erupted through the halls, breaking Myers of his stupor long enough to stare in wonder as the entire structure seemed to quake to one side, before slowly readjusting itself to normal as the ruins grew deathly silent.

For a moment, nothing moved. Myers, too terrified to even breath, maintaining the exact same position like a statue, Liz still brought up close to his breast, listening as hard as he could for anything, -anything-, to signal how the battle had ended. It lasted like this for a moment, Myers feeling himself begin to grow dizzy from the lack of oxygen, before the sound of familiar footfalls hit his ears, causing him to quite literally decompress where he sat, sinking into the wall and taking a deep, long breath. Hellboy had survived. He'd won. As much as was possible, anyway.

Without thinking on it, John quickly scrambled to his feet, adjusting Liz so that she was sitting straight up against the wall, making sure that her head was supported, before moving away from her quickly and moving his hand up to wipe his eyes. When Hellboy was finally visible, looking over the two of them, John appeared to be much the same as when he'd left, albeit a bit redder around the eyes. Feeling as though _something_ needed to be done, John reached out to check the girl's pulse, though he knew from the moment his hand touched cold skin that it was pointless.

"She's. . .she's gone, Red . . ."

Hellboy stopped, a few feet away from his fallen lover, looking at her still frame in mute horror. It seemed that now, with all the demons and bad guys slain, the full reality of the situation hit him all at once. The Samaritan dropped to the ground, metal clanging on stone and echoing loudly down the hall, unheard by all but the two of them. The red giant stepped forward, slowly, giving John time to move respectfully out of the way. He turned away, not wanting to watch the man grieve.

Instead of grieving, though, something else happened. Taking both of the girl's hands in his, one clutched fiercly in his normal hand, the other held carefully in his stone, the large warrior leaned in, kissing the girl softly on the cheek before leaning back to whisper softly into her ear. For a moment, John felt his heart skip a beat. Maybe, just maybe, Hellboy knew something he didn't. Maybe a charm, or an incantation, or a ritual of _something_ that would bring her back? If anyone had built up enough good karma for a miracle, it was Hellboy.

Hellboy leaned back from her, smiling softly, his message given. John's heart raced in his chest, just waiting for some of the color to start to return to Liz's face, for her to smile and for the two of them to hug and become one and be happy . . .but no happy ending came. No color. No movement. And to his horror, John saw Hellboy's eyes, the moisture streaming out of them as the hero smiled into the face of the one person, the one person that he could have ever seen himself with. The smile stayed, a grim mockery of a real smile, until the big man's strength broke, dropping to his hands and knees and letting out a roar of anguish. John continued to stare down the hallway, trying to think of anything, anything else. But everything he thought about always led him to the same word, each time. Fire.

* * *

The service had been a brief one. Liz had few friends, and even fewer family members. In fact, most of those in attendance were the various medical staff that had looked after her over the years, and those that had been in similar mental health programs as her. It was terribly sad, really, Myers thought to himself in retrospect. Hellboy wasn't even able to attend. Another funeral that he missed.

After that, everything went downhill. Red wouldn't come out of his room, wouldn't talk, still hadn't talked from over a year now, would barely eat or sleep. His validity as an operative was coming into question. Manning had done everything that he could, but it was Myers that it fell on to protect him. And it was Myers that had to answer to Washington D.C. With this in mind, he walked with a purpose towards Dr. Bruttenholm's study, the one place where he'd find Blue. And, if he found Blue, he could find Red. The two of them just worked that way, it seemed.

* * *

Abraham Sapien drifted lazily around his tank, occasionally gesturing for a page to be turned, or nodding his head sagely. It really was an amazing thing about him, this ability to multi-task. To listen to a full-blown conversation, whilst swimming, whilst reading two books at once, was beyond the measure of human ability by a long shot. Of course, Abe had little to worry about in terms of human ability. He, unlike much of the BPRD, had changed significantly in the past year. After his run-in with Sammael, an event that took him months to recover from, Abe had taken to an extreme course in physical therapy, and moved now with grace unlike anything he'd had before him. His hand-to-hand fighting skills had advanced exponentially, as well as his speed and dexterity. Still, though, he was Abe, and thus more than content to drift lazily around his tank whilst humoring the big red monkey with conversation. Even if only one of them was talking.

"No, I don't think John would do that."

Hellboy was silent, seemingly staring off into space.

"Well, that's true. But he never seemed to really care much about a normal life, now did he? He's family, Hellboy, their not that easy to shirk."

The amphibian man shrunk back slightly, wincing at an unheard comeback.

"That doesn't count. You know as well as I that neither Professor Bruttenholm nor Liz left of their own free will."

He looked indignant.

"Now your just being self-indulgent. I assure you that Agent Myers has no intention of leaving the Bureau, or giving up on you."

He sighed, softly.

"It's hard in these situations. I assure you, Professor Bruttenholm picked the cream of the crop. He knew what he was doing."

The amphibian man flinched again but, before he had a chance to reply, the door to the library opened and Myers stepped inside, looking agitated and, admittedly, a bit disheveled.

"What, on Earth, happened to you?"

"Guy from Washington here," Myers breathed out exhaustedly, "here to talk about him. Have to meet with him in a few hours."

At the 'him' he sent a pointed glance at Hellboy, which was returned with a glare. After Hellboy had stopped talking, John had taken up the habit of speaking of him as if he wasn't there, even if he was, a sort-of punishment for the red demon's stubbornness. Though he couldn't get him to admit it, John knew that it most likely drew the red beast up the wall with annoyance.

He stopped, for a moment, allowing himself to look over the once powerful looking male. Or, at least, once intimidating. It was very clear that the demon could still easily stride over and break his neck without trying but now . . .it looked as if it was all the demon could do to get out of bed in the morning. His eyes were sunken and tired, his facial stubble overgrown the point of parody, his horns, though still meticulously filed, seemed to be a bit less . . .polished, than they used to be. And the smell. Lord, the demon smelled terrible, apparently not taking personal hygiene into high account in the midst of his depression. He was a sorry sight, compared to the Hellboy John had met when he'd first joined the BPRD.

"Oh," said Abe, "and why have you come here then, rather than stay there and meet with him?"

John smiled slightly, appreciating the fact that Abe was actively trying _not_ to read his mind, a strangely appreciated gesture. Still, the question made him sigh, and shrug apologetically.

"Actually . .. I need to talk to Hellboy. If you would."

Before he'd even finished his sentence, Abe had flipped over and swam back towards the latch that separated his sleeping areas, from the rest of the tank. Apparently the no-mind reading thing hadn't gone so well.

Realizing that he was alone in the room with his charge, John straightened slightly, doing his best to look official and authoritive, like he'd thought Professor Bruttenholm would have done.

"Hellboy . . .we need to talk. About your future at the Bureau."

Normally Myers would have held off the second bit, tried to approach the situation with more caution. But this was not the time for caution. He needed the male's attention. All he got instead, though, was a grunt, and a complete lack of eye contact. It made his pulse rise slightly.

"Hellboy . . .Red," he said softly, taking to calling him by his nickname, "I need you to listen. I'm about to meet with a very powerful man, who's going to have the ability to decide whether or not you get to stay with the Bureau of not. If he choose not . . .then you're either out on the street or . . .withheld, so as not to reveal government secrets."

He let the last bit soak in for a moment, hoping that the demon would absorb some of what he'd said, that it would garner his attention.

"Please, Red. You have to start working again. Start talking again. Listen, I know you miss Liz, we all do but-"

The red behemoth moved to his feet faster than John could track with his eyes, the demon's stance immediately aggressive and his yellow eyes drilling holes in the smaller agent's chest. He'd said one of the "no" words, and had just opened a whole can of unhappy on himself.

Deciding it was better to leave than to bash the man's brains onto the floor, Hellboy turned his back to the man quickly, storming towards the door leading to his chambers. For a moment, Myers considered trying to stop him. But he knew it was no use. It was over, at this point.

"Right . . .bye Red . . ."

He opened the door behind him and slipped out, quietly, resigned now to what he had to do. All was silent in the room, for a moment, before the door leading toward's Hellboy's chambers creaked open slowly, and the big man slipped back into the library, his face masked with mild concern.

"Bye?"

"That's what he said, Red."

Abe had since slipped back into the room as well, and was now torn between the pleasure of hearing Red's deep baratone again, and the disbelief of John's statement. Abe knew what it meant, John had practically been projecting it as loud as he could. But he couldn't tell Red. Not yet.

Standing there dumb founded for a moment, staring at the spot where Myer's had been standing, Hellboy let out a deep sigh and grunt, shrugging his shoulder. "Told ya, blue. He gave up."

He then slipped out the way he came, leaving Abe alone in the library, to ponder his thoughts in private.

* * *

Hellboy stalked into his room, his mind still racing. John was leaving? As in, "not coming back, getting transferred, no more pancakes" leaving? It was a surreal thought. John had become a fixture at the BPRD, someone what was simply, invariably there. Whether you wanted him to be or not.

"Of course," Hellboy thought bitterly, "I shouldn't be surprised. It was the same way with Liz. Except not. Not even close."

He took a seat at one of his oversized reclining chairs, rolling his tongue around his mouth pensively. It felt so strange, to talk again. Something he hadn't done in a year, now. And the one that coaxed him out of it, figures, was the brat. He took a deep breath, staring at the floor.

Liz. Would she want him to try and stop John from leaving? To try and keep the family together? Would she really want him sulking in his room, like a spoiled child, trying to piece back together the pieces of a life that he never really had in the first place?

"Fuck it," he thought, kicking an empty pizza box across the room, "it's not like she had much say now, anyway."

Immediately after he thought it, he regretted it, a wave of intense sadness washing over him, mixing with nausea at the implication of the sentence. He stood from the chair, shakingly, and walked to the "Hellboy: Wall of Fame" as Clay had once called it. It was covered in pictures of Liz; smiling, laughing, hugging various members of the Bureau, working with Father in his library . . .Father. That was another thing he'd lost, in less than a week. Far too tired of crying for himself, Hellboy instead slammed his normal fist into the wall, causing some of the pictures to flutter to the floor. He wheeled around and walked to the oversized punching bag that had been hung in his room, secured eight times over in order to insure the demon could get a propped workout without leveling the entire building.

Letting out a small growl of protest, the behemoth slammed his normal fist into the bag, holding no force back.

"Dammit."

Liz was gone. Father was gone. And now John. Abe was still here, but he didn't have any choice. It seemed like every individual that was ever, ever involved with Hellboy's sorry sack of shit that he called a life ended up leaving. The more that his mind ran over it, the faster his punchs got, soon descending into a flurry, a series of blows with more force and more energy behind them than anything that he'd done in months. It felt good, kicking ass again. Even if it was just a . . .punching bag's ass. He stepped off, his brow already soaked in sweat, the imprints of his blows still stuck firmly in the material of the bag. He moved to the wall to pick up one of the pictures that had fallen, settling back into his chair and looking over it with a tired expression on his face.

A picture of Liz, one of the few instances where he'd actually managed to get her to wear a dress. They where in the library, and she was leaning against one of the shelves, her hair falling naturally onto her face and a playful grin shot at the camera. She was so beautiful . . .he reached up to touch the picture with his stone hand, running a finger carefully down the outline of her face, resting on her cheek. She'd been so warm. . .

"What should I do Liz? What on earth am I supposed to do . . . ?"

He managed to nod off like this, clutching the girl's picture to his chest, almost as if for dear life.

* * *

John felt his chest tighten as he entered the conference room, once again. This time, though, it wasn't Manning that he had to be afraid of. It was the representative.

He was a small man, a fact especially accentuated by the fact that he was wheelchair bound, his legs seeming disproportionally small to his torso, which was not that large to begin with. His face was thin, vaguely rodent-Esq., and his eyes seemed to bug out a little behind his thick, horn-rim glasses. He was an older man, and thin, and more than a little frail looking. Still, there was no confusion about who held the power in the room.

John stood, having not yet been offered a seat. The smaller man looked him over, studying his features and his stance carefully, before nodding. "Yes, I believe it's Mr. Myers, correct?"

John nodded, his back arched perfectly and his feet spread at the exact angle he'd been taught. "Yes, Sir."

The man smiled. "No need to be so stiff, Myers. It's not you who's being called into question here. Please, sit."

John felt the hair on the back of his neck stiffen. Something about the man's voice, so cool and collected, made him feel extremely ill at ease. Not to mention that the man hadn't hesitated to assert his mission: to find a reason, one single reason, to dismiss Hellboy.

"Now, John," the cool man said, leaning back in his chair, "I've been made to understand that you are the . . .operative's caretaker, his liaison if you will. Now, I wonder Mr. Myers," John tensed, "why am I speaking to you, right now, and not him?"

John took a small breath, having watched carefully as the man spoke, trying to identify his motives, what to watch out for, what to avoid mentioning at all costs. The man, however, was very intent on giving him nothing at all to work with.

"I understand your question, Sir, and I apologize for any inconvenience this brings to you. I'm indeed Hellboy's," he carefully inspected the man's face, looking for signs of displeasure or disapproval, as he's neglected to say Red's name. There were none. "liason. He couldn't join us today, he had . . .other arrangements, to put it simply."

The smaller man raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure he did. More important than his future at the Bureau, hm?" Before John could answer, he moved on. "I'm not looking for answers, Mr. Myers, I'm beyond that. What I want to know is this: will the operative continue to be a drain on the United States taxpayers, or will someone," he gave a sharp look to John, "convince him that coverage provided to him is a privilege, not a right, and that he must uphold his end of the bargain, in order to continue to reap the rewards?"

John froze. The man had outlined the situation, and his options, ruthlessly.

"I . . .Sir, I don't . . .know . . ."

"What's the matter, Agent Myers? Cat got your tongue."

"I . . I . . " John stuttered, not taking a moment to appreciate the irony of the man's statement, "I have done my best, Sir. Hellboy continue to be stuck in a continual state of what appears to be clinical depression and I'm not trained enough to-"

"Enough," the man said, reaching towards the table and lifting up a bulging manila folder, "that's all I needed to know." The man began to turn, about to wheel out of the room when Myers sprung to his feet, positioning himself between the door and the man.

"Wait, Sir, please, hear me out."

The man stopped moving, his clear blue eyes drilling into the young agent.

"I'm listening."

"Sir, please, with all do respect, I can't let you do that. After all he's done, you can't just forsake him like this . . ."

"Do not tell me what I can or can not do, Agent Myers, I believe that is my job for you," the man said, completely evenly, not even breaking his composure.

"Right, sorry Sir, but . . ." he shifted his weight slightly, unsure of how to continue, "Sir, I will do anything necessary to keep Hellboy with the Bureau. All I need is more time, Sir."

"You have had plenty of time, Myers," the man said nonchalantly, inspecting his finger nails, "but I'm feeling generous. You have two weeks to break the operative of his funk. If you are incapable of doing so in that time, than the validity of both he," he gave Myers a sharp look, "and you, as his liaison, will be called into question. Do we understand each other, John?"

John felt a chill run up his spine as the man addressed him by his first name, the air chilling with the man's quiet ferocity, and only warming again once the man had left. John fell back against a chair, gripping it's arm tightly as his head swam. He couldn't remember being this scared since Moscow. There was something defiantly, undeniably wrong with that man. He just couldn't put his finger on it.

He stayed in the chair a long time, not daring to move for fear his legs would collapse out from under him.

Two weeks. Only two weeks to bring Hellboy out of a year-long slump. And if he didn't, they were both screwed. His mind swimming, he stood, trying hard to focus on a course of action, a plan, anything. One thing kept coming to mind: he needed a vacation. He needed to go home, for a bit.

END OF CHAPTER !


	2. Point it home

Chapter 2

John poked his head into the library, glancing around nervously for any large, red landmasses. He paused, debating over whether to enter or not.

"Hellboy's asleep in his room, John," the familiar voice of the merman rang out, it's owner drifting lazily into view, munching on one of the spoiled eggs that he delighted in, "I hear him snore, sometimes. Quite impressive, given the sound-proofing."

John managed to grin, nodding as he entered the library, shutting the door quietly behind him. "Right."

"He spoke again, you know."

John stared at him a moment, trying to process Abe's statement. "He . . .talked? Like, actual talking?"

Abe nodded, smiling as he flipped lazily over to stare at the ceiling of his tank. "Audibly and everything. Albeit, it was only a few words, but they were there none the less."

John grinned. It wasn't much, but Hellboy talking again certainly looked well. Though, this was Abe. There was no guarantee that Hellboy would talk to anyone else, especially John. Of course, there was only a 50-50 chance that Hellboy would talk to John under the best circumstances.

"You're sure you didn't just read his mind, and get the two confused?"

Abe smiled, shaking his head. "No, John. I'm quite sure. I would have to be quite befuddled to confuse the two."

John tried to stifle a small chuckle, but failed, reaching up to run a hand over his hair. "Well I'll be damned . . ."

Abe tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. "But that's not why you're here, is it John?"

The grin faded, John's hand coming down to rest at his side once more. He shifted slightly, like an accused child, the hand slipping down into his pocket instinctively.

"I thought you weren't going to do the psychic thing."

"No one's perfect."

John nodded, sighing quietly and taking a seat at Professor Bruttenholm's former desk.

"So, I guess I don't need to say it, then?"

"If you don't wish to, then don't. I can piece enough together myself. He," Abe gestured in the direction of Hellboy's quarters, "thinks you've given up on him."

John opened his mouth in protest, but Abe cut him off.

"You haven't, of course. Anyone can tell that much, large red demon's excluded. Red's just got . . ." he paused, searching for the word.

"Abandonment issues?" John offered.

Abe smiled. "Precisely. Understandable, given the circumstances. But . . .you are leaving, yes?"

John nodded, sadly.

"May I ask why?"

John sighed. "I dunno . . .I just can't . . .I just need some time off. Between Red and that official guy . . ."

"How did that go, by the way?"

A shudder.

"Awful. It's like he knew where the conversation was going before it even started."

John then proceeded to relate the events of their conversation, what he could remember of it anyway, with Abe listening patiently and occasionally nodding.

"That sound's . . .very odd."

"Odd in extremes, more like it," John said, kneading his forehead, "it was like everything was moving in fast-forward, and he'd already seen the ending."

Abe rubbed his chin thoughtfully, leaning against the back wall of his tank. "Hm. It's not entirely surprising, really."

John raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, this is most certainly not the first time we've had complications between Hellboy and Washington."

John's brow furrowed. "It's not?"

Abe chuckled. "Oh my, no. In fact, I'd estimate that it's probably . . ." he trailed off, figuring the numbers in his head, "I'd say it's the 28th, actually."

"28TH!"

Abe nodded, still looking deep in thought.

"Hmm, interesting. Everything before now, it always fell on Tr- Professor Bruttenholm to defend him. And every time . . ."

"The professor got his way?"

Abe nodded, his lips pursed.

"So that's what it is, huh? With the professor gone, they figure that this is a nice time to actually get rid of Hellboy?"

Abe nodded. "Washington's never been fond of the idea of having a 'demon' in their employ. It would be different if Hellboy actually 'tried' to appeal to them but. . ."

"He doesn't. At all."

"Right. And not just Hellboy, all those that support him are probably on the list as well. You notice that the official didn't just terminate him out right? That he actually waited for you to defend him? To offer you a chance, at the risk of your job?"

John blinked, before swearing loudly under his breath. He'd walked right into it.

"Yes, you did." Abe said, quietly.

John rubbed his forehead. "It they wanted us both gone, why didn't they just sack us both?"

Abe again thought quietly to himself. "Perhaps . . . perhaps they're worried about creating conflict with the member's they want to keep? You may not realize it, John, but you've become quite well liked around the Bureau. It you were 'sacked' without reason, they're might be . . .unrest, with some of the operatives. If they can say that you left of your own volition, however, that might make a completely different picture entirely. Really, it's quite impressive that they're going to these lengths just to get rid of Red. They must really be banking on you not being able to pull him back into the current."

At first, John couldn't help but blush and grin slightly at the man's words, soaking up one of the rare compliments he got around the Bureau. However, the grin lessened as Abe went on.

"Well, they've bet a pretty good horse, haven't they?"

"You don't think you can do it?"

John sighed, hanging his head slightly before looking back up at Abe.

"I can't get through to him. I'm not you, or Professor Bruttenholm, and I'm certainly not Liz. He won't have anything to do with me unless I'm feeding him, and then it's only kind of a grunt," John sighed, softly, "I think it's best if I take some time off. Leave him alone, for a while. Recuperate."

A strange expression flashed across Abe's face, but disappeared as quickly as it had come.

"Maybe. Where are you going?"

"I think . . .I think I'll head home."

Abe nodded.

"Are you going to tell Red?"

John shook his head. "Wouldn't matter if I did."

The strange expression again.

"Well, fair enough. Be safe, John. Make sure you come back to us."

John grinned, pulling himself out of the chair.

"Course Blue. Of course."

* * *

Hellboy came awake slowly, as per usual. It took a lot of energy to get that big body of his actually running. He blinked, leaning up out of the chair and yawning loudly enough to burst eardrums. He exhaled softly, cracking his neck to one side, then the other. Feeling something in his large, stone hand, he opened it slowly, raising an eyebrow.

Her picture, crunched and crinkled.

"Oh shit!" he shouted, jumping out of the chair, immediately trying to flatten the picture out with his normal hand. He took it to his table, setting it down and beginning to rub it fiercely, trying desperately to smooth it out.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!"

Nothing. The picture wouldn't smooth out, no matter how hard he tried. He swore loudly again, his movement's getting more desperate, rubbing furiously to get the creases out.

A rip.

He froze, looking down at the picture. It was torn completely in two. Liz's smiling face was gone, now just two disjointed pieces.

He felt a great sob welling up in his chest, but suppressed it as best he could, crumpling into the table, his hand's placed protectively over the severed image.

* * *

Several hours later, the red giant entered the library, his face sunken and his feet shuffling. He took a seat on the floor, his broad back resting against a bookshelf. Abe looked up from what he was reading, slowly, before chancing a cautious "Red?"

"Blue." Hellboy responded, not making eye contact.

Abe smiled, making a movement with his hands that looked something like a strange, underwater applause.

"Ah, it's good to here your voice again. I knew that you weren't cut out for the entire 'vow of silence' game."

Hellboy grunted. "Whatever."

Abe nodded, shrugged, and returned to his reading. "Well, you're as talkative as ever . . ."

Silence. And then . . .

"Boy scout?"

"Gone."

"Gone, gone?"

"Gone, gone, Red."

Hellboy grunted again, staring at the floor.

When no sound came again, Hellboy looked up. "Where to?"

Abe looked for a moment, like he was calculating. "1524 Peach Grove Lane, Quantico, Virginia, if memory serves. His Uncle's estate."

"Uncle's?"

"His parents disappeared when he was age 6."

"Hm. So, he's staying with his Uncle, then?"

"His uncle's dead too, actually. Much later . . .memory doesn't serve what age John actually was."

Hellboy's brow furrowed. "Suck."

"Indeed."

"So, he's staying by himself? At the old man's place?"

Abe nodded, still reading. "Yes. Strange, isn't it?"

Hellboy sighed, softly. "Not really. I've been to places where Liz lived a lot lately . . . it's kind of comforting. Peaceful."

Abe shrugged. "Well, that's the situation, anyway."

Again, there was silence.

"So, when's he coming back?"

Abe gave a slight groan, before swimming over to the glass where Hellboy sat, his eyes narrowed.

"Alright, enough! I've given you the address, there's an motorcycle in the garage where one of the operative leaves his keys in the side compartment, and you're not fooling anyone, -anyone-, by acting gruff! Myers gave up his job for you, the least you can do is thank him!"

Hellboy blinked, having never actually seen Abe explode at anyone before, especially not him. Then, after recovering from that, his mind tried to comprehend the last bit.

"Wait, he what?"

"Gave up his job for you, as I said. Told them, 'My salary more than makes up for his room and board, take me off the payroll and use the money to keep him."

Hellboy blinked again, clearly not yet comprehending the statement.

"Why the hell would he do that?"

Abe rolled his eyes, flipping over to swim away towards his sleeping chambers.

"He's your friend, of course. What else would he do?"

Hellboy stood still for a moment, watching Abe swim away, before quickly leaning up against the glass.

"Wait, what was that address again?"

"1524 Peach Grove Lane, Quantico, Virginia."

Hellboy nodded, almost running to his fathers old desk to jot down the address, before jogging out of the library.

Watching his retreating back, Abe smirked to himself. Too easy.

John sighed to himself, nearly twelve hours after he left the library. He was standing outside a rather run down apartment building, having clearly suffered from over a decade of mistreatment and mishandling. Uncle Thad and he had had to make due, though, what with the cost of owning and operating Thad's shop. It was cramped, and cold, and smelled like cat pee (a possible explanation for Myer's distaste of the creatures), but it had been homey enough. Emphasis on the 'had been.' Now, however, it served more as a cold reminder than anything else.

John had moved quickly to get away from Jersey, deciding to leave his moped there in favor of taking a Bureau car, a faster ride, though not nearly as comfortable. He knew the way, having visited frequently in the past year to pay his respects. The trip only took four hours. Still, this was his first time actually staying at the apartment since his Uncle's death. He wasn't entirely looking forward to it.

Walking up the small flight of stairs to the second floor, Myer's felt his heart growing increasingly nervous, not knowing what to expect, despite the fact that nothing could have changed since he was here a month ago, him being the only person to enter and exit. He fumbled around in his pockets for the key, finally finding it and unlocking the door with a loud thunk.

When he entered, the first thing to hit him was the smell. Even though no one had lived in it for years, the place still smelled like his uncle; gasoline, sweat, alcohol, aftershave, all of it culminating into quite an overwhelming sense, to those that weren't used to it. John, however, was used to it, and continued to move into the powerful smelling apartment, setting his backpack down by the door. He entered the living room to find a small layer of dust on pretty much everything, as well as a few dead bugs here and there. Overall, though, nothing new. The place was as Spartan as the day he'd left it, a few picture frames and a through pillow being the only things even remotely similar to decoration. There was a couch, a reclining chair, a TV, and a coffee table. The rest of the place was pretty much the same, with almost nothing that didn't serve some kind of concrete purpose.

He moved into the kitchen, checking to see if there was anything edible. Finding nothing, he sighed quietly and moved back into the living room, laying down on the couch. It wasn't the state of the apartment, or hunger, or thirst, but there was this pressing feeling in his stomach, like something was horribly, horribly wrong. He thought of his Uncle, at peace in the Earth. And then he thought of Hellboy.

"Shit . . ." he mused aloud, "what the hell am I doing . . ."

"Shit . . ." Hellboy mused aloud, "what the hell am I doing?"

He was parked outside a Phillips 66, staring to decipher a rather ineffective map through a pair of large, horn-rim faux-glasses. He was glad, at the time, that there was no one around to see him, as he'd never felt more ridiculous. A sweater. A parka. Two scarves. A wide-brimmed hat. Glasses. Mittens on the normal hand, a faux-cast on the other. He looked more like a damaged Eskimo than anything else, and being that it was roughly 60 outside, he was attracting a lot more attention than he would have preferred. Of course, he was still roughly 6'7, so few actually dared to call him on it.

He glared at the little squiggles covering the paper, hoping that if he projected enough hatred into them, that they're start making sense. Instead, though, the remained much the same, mostly out of spite to him. He swore, crumpling up the piece of paper and throwing it aside, climbing off of the bike (which squeaked loudly at this mercy) and approached the station itself.

It was night, roughly 12:30, so there were few people around. There was, however, a man standing outside, donned in construction gear and looking especially tired. At first, the man ignored him. But as Hellboy drew closer, he had to stifle a chuckle as the man's eyes grew wider and wider. "Excuse me," he said, trying his hardest to act normal, "you know the way to Quantico from here?"

The man froze, clearly terrified at being addressed by this bulky behemoth. "Q-q-quantico? Virginia, Quantico?"

Hellboy growled slightly, leaning close enough to where their eye's connected.

"No, idiot, Texas Quantico. Of course Virginia!" he said lowly, dangerously, enjoying the man's obvious intimidation.

"G-g-go w-w-w-est on this road til' you reach the interstate, then follow that North. You'll see an sign sayin' "Quantico," the man stuttered, positively shaking now, "j-just turn there."

Hellboy continued to lean in towards the man, playing up on fear, before laughing loudly and clapping the man on the back (with his normal hand, thankfully).

"Good man, thanks a lot."

He wandered back to his bike, his spirits lifted already. He'd forgotten how good it had felt to run away.

Manning was furious as he entered the library, his hand perpetually on his tie, shifting it and messing with it for no apparent reason other than needing something to mess with, lest he resort to strangling. He stormed up to Abe's tank, rapping on the glass loudly, causing the man to shrink back and cover his ear's.

"Really, is tha-"

"Where's that fat-assed red demon? I'm gonna put my boot so far up his-"

"What's the problem, Sir?"

Manning was bright red with anger. "The problem is that because of him Agent Myers is going to lose –his- job now too. I just got word from Washington, and apparently they got Myer's to make some sort of deal and-"

"I know about the deal already, Sir."

Manning paused. "Wait. You do? Who told you?"

"Myers."

"Where is he?"

"Gone."

Manning roared furiously. "God damn it! The stupid red monkey, I'm gonna-"

He stormed off towards Hellboy's quarters as he spoke, but Abe called after him.

"Wait, Sir."

"What!?"

"He's not there."

"What do you mean he's not there?"

"He's gone."

"Gone?"

"Gone."

"Where?"

"After Myers."

Manning stopped, growing silent, before tilting his head slightly.

"Huh?"


	3. Raise Your Voice

Author's Note: So, the more I get involved with this, the more I noticed that each chapter comes with it's own specific brand of challenge. Chapter two was, obviously, a very dialogue centered piece, something I'd never done before, and I feel that it was fairly successfully overall. This, though, I have misgivings about . . .I'm trying my hardest to take two characters, portray what they're thinking realistically, and trying to keep them in character through a major emotional confrontation. I dunno, it's late, and my mind is impaired . . .please rate and review this. It's an extreme beta, obviously, and may very well be changed/scrapped/etc depending on the feedback. Thank you! Sorry for the suck!

Chapter 3

John woke up on the couch, his head fogged, feeling more tired than he had when waking up in a long, long time. He was a morning person. This wasn't supposed to happen to morning people. He pulled himself up, swinging his feet on the floor and shakingly disconnecting himself from the couch, stumbling towards the kitchen.

Throwing open cabinet door after cabinet door, a scowl growing larger on his brow, his expression finally lightened slightly when he found what he was looking for.

"Delicious," he grumbled, "two year old coffee."

He set to work with the coffee maker, it too clearly suffering from a lack of use. He'd have to go to the store, get a few things. That much was pretty obvious, given his complete lack of food or beverage. Or at least, decent beverage. He rummaged around the kitchen slowly, his soft features still darkened and weighted with the lack of a proper night's sleep. He ran a hand softly over the back of his neck, taking a deep breath, before sticking a cautious nose into his armpit. Ugh.

Leaving the ancient coffee pot to warm up and actually start doing it's job, he moved for the bathroom, wondering if it would have the desired effect of waking him up. 'If I don't stop shuffling my feet like this, I'll start looking like him.'

Satisfied with his own internal mockery of the man, he made his way into the tiled interior of the bathroom, stained with age, but not unclean. Save, that was, from more dead roaches sitting in the tub.

"Gross," Myers muttered, pulling up the shower curtain and turning on the hot water, stepping back and letting the old pipes get re-accustomed to running water again. He turned to face the mirror, smudged and scratched, but still functional. That seemed to be a motif with the place, something he'd never noticed when he actually lived here.

'That's me . . . Mister Adjustable.'

He peeled off his shirt, throwing it aside and inspecting himself in the mirror. Pale. A few acne scars. Only the lightest of light dustings of brown hair on his chest. He scowled at himself in the mirror, willing himself a little more macho, a little less unattractive. He flex slightly, a small smile forming at the toned muscle of his arms and chest, something built by years of work, something that had taken him a long time to develop, and something that many would be proud to have. Still, it did little for him. Still lithe. Slightly feminine. He flexed again, this time taking a full-on body builder pose, trying to show off some bulk to him. But there was little to be found.

He grumbled again, shucking the rest of his clothing before climbing into the shower, letting the water run down his frame, sighing softly at the feeling of the harsh, un-softened water hitting him, a very different feeling from the water at the Bureau's showers.

"He thinks you've given up on him."

Crap. He reached up, running his hands through his wet hair, ridding it of the gel that he normally put in it, letting it fall down flat onto his forehead. It felt good to have it down again, something he rarely made a habit of.

He hadn't given up. Not by a long shot. He'd just . . .he needed time. Not just for him, either. The Hellboy he'd met had been rude, uncouth, unmanageable, and more than a little belligerent. And he missed him. How could he blame him, though, after what happened to Liz? Who did Hellboy have to blame, but himself?

John leaned against the wall of the shower, taking another deep breath.

'He could blame me. He probably does.'

But it still wasn't enough. Even if he hated John now, that still wasn't enough to keep him from sinking into what he was now.

'Figures. I'm not even useful as someone to blame.'

John reached up, turning off the shower head and stepping out onto the cold linoleum, toweling himself off quickly before pulling the bottom half of his attire back on and stepping out of the bathroom. He'd always hated going naked, even at home, at that hadn't changed in the slightest.

He moved into the kitchen, smiling to note that the coffee was ready. He searched through the cabinets again, searching for something to drink it in, before finally coming up with a disposable paper cup that had been sitting there for untold amounts of time. Checking for dust or spiders, and finding none, John proceeded to pour a cup, lifting it to his mouth slowly and taking a sip.

'Predictably awful,' he thought, spitting the foul stuff down the sink before pouring the whole damn concoction down the drain with a sour expression on his face. At least, though, he seemed to be fully awake.

'Huh. Bitter. Foul. Old. Reminds me of someone.'

And then it hit him. The reason he hadn't slept well, the reason why he'd had an unsteady feeling in his stomach since the moment he'd left the Bureau. It was Hellboy. It all boiled down to Hellboy. He'd been thinking about him, near non-stop since he'd left, and even when he wasn't in direct thought he'd been on the fringes.

Myers stared at the sink, considering for a moment this mild revelation. Then, sighing softly, shook his head.

"No, forget this," he said, crumpling up the cup and tossing it into the nearby trash can before going back to the bathroom to find the rest of his clothes.

'I'm not going to think about him my whole vacation, I'm going to relax and I'm not going to even think about Red.'

But as he walked out the door to go grocery shopping, a necessary task to make the apartment even semi-livable, his nose was once again assailed by the strong smell of cat pee. And that made him think of Hellboy. And that made him swear under his breath; a habit, he thought, that he'd picked up from a certain demon. And that made him swear again.

"Shit, $#, bitch, #&, ass . . ." Hellboy muttered, voicing each and every swear word that he could possibly think of loudly, the sound of his heavy footfalls hitting the gravel beside the highway serving as the only other sound to accompany him, aside from the occasional sound of a passing car. Each time he'd hear it he would stick his thumb out, as he'd seen on movies at home, and each time they'd pass. Most of them would speed up. The worst would throw things.

He couldn't blame them though, given the bizarre outfit. He did anyway, of course, cursing each and every one of them (as well as their past, present, and future families) to rather creative fates. The morning light beat down on him, the cool night giving way to sunlight. It would be even harder not to draw attention now.

Fucking bike. Never mind the fact that Hellboy had no license, knew next to nothing about driving, and had no idea how to fix the thing, even if had been the most minute of problems. No, of course it was still the bike's fault. If Myers had been there, he could have fixed it.

Myers.

'What the hell am I doing out here, busting my ass for his punk . . .ass'

Hellboy's gaze lowered to stare at the ground, ignoring the sound of a car's horn blaring as it passed, clearly mocking his bizarre visage as he walked alongside the road.

Screw this, running away sucked. He was god knows how far away from where he needed to be, he was dressed ridiculously, he was thirst, hungry, and he kind of had to pee. Not to mention that he wasn't entirely done being depressed yet. But he couldn't let John leave, not just like that.

And that, chiefly, was the question that was bothering him the most. Why not? Why couldn't he just let him leave, tell the kid to amscray and never had to be pestered by his whiny little voice of bug-eyed little gaze again.

'Okay, not fair. He's done something for me, I return the favor. Easy deal, nothin' else to it.'

Of course there was something else, there was always something else. That's what he hated about it, every time he thought he'd gotten someone figured out suddenly they had some new layer that he had to react and adapt to. He couldn't keep up with it, sometimes. Not to mention that while everyone was out leading their happy, shiny 'other' lives he was stuck back at the Bureau, in as close to solitary confinement as it came, excluding the company of Abe and whoever happened to be pushing his pancakes. Or unless he was killing something.

Not to say that he didn't like being alone, killing things, and watching TV for hours on hours on hours. More like the lack of choice in the matter that was the problem. Not to mention the fact that, with the exception of Abe, he was pretty much the only one resigned to this fate. If Liz, or Clay, or Myers would just stick around more often and . . . no, not Myers. He didn't need Myer's company.

He muttered to himself, deciding that he was thinking entirely too much. Especially about Myers. He'd go, say thank you, and that would be it. He'd call the Bureau for a ride home. Easy.

He heard the sound of a car approaching from behind, and again stuck out his thumb, hoping that maybe this time . . .the car sped up, audibly, and raced past him going at least ten miles over the speed limit. The thumb became a middle finger.

Several minutes of walking later, and Hellboy's scowl became a . . .well, a slightly less pronounced scowl.

"Quantico - - -10 miles."

John struggled with the bags, albeit happily, preferring them to the oversized food cart belonging to his charge any day. Despite the fact that his first day off had been spent gathering foodstuffs, he'd been happy. Contended was a better word for it, in any case. He'd spent the morning in the supermarket, gathering up a week's supply of food, and the afternoon simply driving around, taking in the changes of the place since he'd last visited. It was different, admittedly, but no less a military town.

The town Quantico itself didn't, in actuality, exist. It was a military base, one of the biggest CSI/FBI/ and Marine Corp. training areas in the US. What could be considered the town proper, and where John had grown up, was a small outcropping of business's and homes approximately four miles north of the base, more of a way-station than a town. So, admittedly, there was very little to change. The gas station was Exxon now. A Wal-Mart. That was about it.

He finally reached the last stair, now on correct floor, and moved for his door. It was first on the left, convenient enough, with large metal numbers marking it as theirs. "Myers- 264." He set a bag on the ground, reaching forward to twist the knob. In a town like Quantico, there wasn't really any reason to lock the doors. There was nothing to steal, and no one to steal it if there was.

Stepping into the darkness of the apartment, he immediately regretted this childhood habit.

He was on his couch. His, John's, couch. Big. Red. On his couch. Trying to comprehend this one, simple sentence, as well as not trip over the various articles of . . .winter clothing strewn about on the floor, he slowly and quietly moved into the kitchen, setting the bags on the counter.

"That you, Myers?" he heard a deep, sleepy voice call out.

He was silent, for a moment, staring at the tiles on the kitchen floor, counting them, trying to let his mind catch up with the circumstances surrounding him.

"Boy scout?"

The sound of heavy footfalls, and he could almost feel Hellboy in the doorway behind him.

" Oh, hey," the deep voice said, sounding almost apologetic, "I let myself in. Your door wasn't locked. You should really lock it when you go out. I could have been some kind of psycho, you know?"

He sounded awkward, out of place in a house that wasn't his own. For a moment, John almost would have preferred the psycho.

" . . .it's alright."

The sound of Hellboy shifting awkwardly behind him, and inhaling deeply.

"Listen, and talked to Abe and . . .you got a minute?"

John didn't move, still trying to comprehend what was happening, when a rattled hit his ears. He turned, seeing a six pack clutched in the demon's large, stone hand.

"I brought beer."

And John nodded, following the demon into the living room.

"So . . .let me get this straight. You drove three-quarters of the way here on a –stolen- bureau motorcycle, which you broke and left on the side of the road, then proceeded to walk the rest of the way here. Right?"

"Yuh-huh," Hellboy said, lazily, stretched out across the couch, a beer clutched in his normal hand. He looked entirely comfortable and at peace already, despite the fact that he'd only just shown up a few minutes prior. Or, rather, he'd shown up several hours prior, but John had only been aware of it for the past few minutes.

"And . . .why, again?"

"To thank you for what you did. With the Washington guy."

"So . . .you stole government property, went AWOL, drove said property across state lines, surely being seen by countless people, and insure me, as your liason, enough paperwork to kill a rainforest to . . .thank me?"

Hellboy grunted, taking a sip of the beer. "Makes a lot less sense when you put it that way, but yeah."

John took a deep sigh, leaning back against the reclining chair.

"Well . . .guess my vacation's over."

Hellboy raises an eyebrow at this, pulling himself upright slowly.

"Wait, vacation?"

John looked at him, quizzically. "Yeah, vacation. Time off from pancake pushing, why?"

Hellboy stared at the man for a second, before slapping his forehead, falling back onto the couch. "Ah shit . . ." he groaned, before taking a long swig of beer.

"What, what's wrong?"

Hellboy shook his head, before resting it on the armrest of the couch.

"Nothin'. Got any fish sticks?"

"No . . ."

"Too bad."

Silence. And then.

"So . . . you're outside, again. That's something, anyway."

"Guess so."

"You liking it?"

"It's alright."

Silence.

"Talking too. Very good . . ."

"Mm."

Silence again.

"So, what're yo-"

"Alright, enough," Hellboy said, leaning up again, setting his beer on the coffee table. "Look, I'm not one to play words games, so I'm gonna say it now. I appreciate you looking after my ass since Moscow, and I know I've been a #, so if you'd just come back to the Bureau and quit with this whole 'vacation' crap, then maybe things can get back to normal. Alright?"

Hellboy paused, waiting for John's response. He was surprised at the glare.

"Christ, how self absorbed can you possibly get!? You think this is all about you, that I can't possibly want a week off to myself, for myself!? Maybe I just want a vacation, did you ever think of that?"

Seeing the smaller man angry, yelling at him like that, Hellboy quickly felt his own temper rise, pulling himself up to stand and face the man, glaring down at the much smaller figure of the agent.

"Well maybe I don't want you to have a vacation!"

"Maybe it's not your choice! If I-"

John stopped, looking up at the demon. His charge. The one he'd sworn that to Professor Bruttenholm that he'd protect. That he'd stand by.

" . . .fine. If you want me to come back, then say it. Say you want me to come back, and say why. I want to hear it from your mouth, the same one that I've been feeding for the past year, with barely any acknowledgment, the same mouth that shows up on my couch at 4:00 pm, after traveling across state lines to get here. Tell me, why on earth are here?"

Hellboy stared down at the young agent, his nostrils still flaring slightly from anger, and his broad chest still pumped out threateningly, but rapidly deflating, with the rest of him, as the anger passes. He didn't come here to fight. He came here to make amends.

"Fine. I want you back, because you're my friend. Happy? Was that the acknowledgement you needed?"

John continued to glare up at his charge, unsure of how the situation had gotten so emotional so fast, how he'd been calm one moment, to furious the next. And now, with Red's words, he felt like he was about to cry. What on earth was happening to him.

"Yeah . . .yeah it was Red."

"Woman."

John grinned.

"You spent the past year moping in your room."

Hellboy grinned.

"Fair enough. So, head back tomorrow?"

John nodded, rubbing his temples, thinking about all the food he'd bought, and how it would go to waste.

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Just . . .sleep on the couch, I'll take the bedroom. Eat what you want, too, I'm not hungry anymore."

By the end of the night, Hellboy had pretty well eaten him out of house and home, or at least eat the majority of what he'd bought at the store. A week's worth of food. And for a moment, John truly considered how much money it must take to keep the big monster fed.

And then, that night, as John lay asleep on the couch, pondering what it was exactly that was affecting him, he noted that Abe was indeed right; Hellboy snored ridiculously loudly.


	4. Still Time

Author's Note: Keep in mind, the cartoon that I reference in this chapter is an actual cartoon, included in the collector's edition of the Hellboy DVD under the section "From the Den: Hellboy recommends . . ." After watching it, I thought to myself . . ."Now, what is Hellboy recommending this?" I thought about it, and it made sense. At least to me. Also, while some of you might know much more about Hellboy's real father than I do, keep in mind that this is 1. Movie-verse based. No daddy in movie. 2. An AU. I'll make his daddy whoever I damn well please. :) Never read the comics, sorry guys.

Chapter 4

John came awake slowly, his mind taking a moment to catch up with his body. And, when it had, it became very apparent that this was not the room he'd fallen asleep in.

It resembled the library, back at the BPRD. Books upon books, stacked higher than John's vision could manage to see, with various statues interspersing throughout the study. The statues where amazingly articulate, depicting all manners of demon and man alike, most of them standing still, gazing into nothing. If John had been more of a scholar of art, he might have known more about them. As it was, though, he could tell that they were of quality.

He walked farther into the strange room, his eyes adjusting to the dim light set by a nearby fireplace, the only light source in the room, finding himself a bit intimidated by the shadows playing up the wall. Something about the room was unexplainably off. Maybe it was the strange lighting, but John couldn't help but get the feeling that the room seemed to be closing in on him, the angles and proportions of everything just feeling . . .wrong. That, and the fact that when he looked back, his bed was gone, leaving only more books. There was no door in sight.

He walked closer to the fire, hoping that a bit more light would set the room back into perspective. The fireplace was big, and ancient, coated in a fine layer of dust. The fire, though, was burning well enough, casting it's light and warmth into the odd room. Still, though, he felt cold. Yes, something was decidedly wrong, here.

"You've grown quite close to my son, Mr. Myers."

John felt his stomach drop, wheeling about on his heel to face the owner of the familiar voice. His eyes widened, slightly, as he tried to comprehend the image of Professor Bruttenholm sitting before him, hand's crossed in his lap before him, in a rather ornate looking chair that he would have bet an exurbanite amount of money hadn't been there a few moments ago.

"P-professor . . ."

The old man nodded, his mouth folding up into a patient smile.

"Take a seat, Mr. Myers." he said, softly, gesturing behind John where a new chair had formed out of nowhere, looking remarkably similar to the one that the older man was seated in.

John nodded, sitting down carefully in the chair. It was obvious enough, now, that wherever he was, it was not the real world.

"Pr-professor you . .. how . . .?"

Trevor dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"How is not important. What is important is that we are here, you and I, and we have much to discuss. Now, you remember what I said to you? About you, and my son?"

John raised an eyebrow, watching the man speak. Something was very strange. The words that were coming out of the man's mouth didn't match up with his lips. John was no lip-reader, but he could tell plainly enough that the same words were being repeated over and over, even if he couldn't tell what they where.

"John?" the old man said, raising an eyebrow.

"Right, sorry. I um, I guess so. We're friends now, I guess. After your death . . ."

"I am not talking about friendship, John."

John felt a chill run up his spine. The man had dropped calling him by his last name, now referring to him by his first, rather pointedly. Something about his eyes . . .something was different. It didn't help that the lips still didn't synch.

"I-I don't follow . . ."

"You know what I mean, John."

John was dumbstruck. "N-no . ..I . . ."

"ROMANCE, John!?"

Felt his gut go cold as the man shouted, the world seeming to rush around him. He wasn't sure, but he seemed to be closer to the man now, the space between them having shrunk, with the rest of the room as well. The darkness seemed more pronounced though, and the fire provided no warmth. He shivered. This was most certainly not, Professor Bruttenholm.

"There's nothing like that between me and Hellboy . . .we're just . . ."

"DO NOT," the old man shouted, his voice twisting and warping as it escaped his mouth, sounding less and less human by the second, "lie to me, John, I will see through your pathetic charade effortlessly. Humans," whatever it was that was taking the Professor's form spat out the word like it was a curse, "are easy to read, and you Mr. Myers, are even easier."

John had never been more terrified, and more cold, than when the thing gripped his chin, forcing their faces within inches of each other.

"My son will not spill himself into a useless male, John. I will see to that."

Terrified though he was, John was close enough to see the words that formed on the creature's lips, now.

'The beast lies, Son needs . . .the beast lies, Son needs . . .'

"Wh-what are you!?"

The creature, now a pale mockery of the Professor more than anything else, jerked John's head to the side before releasing his grip and grinning widely, standing now to his full height, at least three feet taller than what he was a moment ago. The shadow's in the room seemed to be coming alive now, reaching up to wrap around John's legs and torso to hold him in place, and wrapping around the creature affectionately. The statues, too, were no longer stationary leaning in and grinning gleefully at the human's plight, a immense sinister force radiating off of them.

With almost a slight hiss to his voice, the creature spoke loudly and with pride, shaking Myer's to his very core.

"I am Yyall Un Rama, and you are not welcome here, any longer."

The creature's now gnarled hand reached out for Myer's breast, the fingertips connecting with flesh, searing heat radiating from their tips and boiling flesh where the tips connected. Overcome with pain and fear, Myer's passed out.

John was thankful that he did not wake screaming, something that surely would have set Hellboy awake and looking for something to kill. Not to say that it was the best way he'd woken up, either. He could feel them, four agonizing pin-pricks where the demon's fingertips had touched flesh. He sat up in bed, stuffing pillows behind him and using them as padding as he leaned back against the wall.

The dream was so clear, so vivid, very much unlike any dream he'd had before. He remembered every detail; even the demon's bizarre accusations. It was total bull, of course, with Myer's having little more interest in Hellboy than Hellboy in Myers. Or at least, that's the way he wrote it off in his head. It was certainly a strange dream, in any case, one of the strangest he'd had in a long time. Maybe it was trying to tell him something.

He shook his head, climbing carefully out of bed, deciding not to think about it. Glancing at the electric alarm clock by the bedside, he noticed the time was 3:30 am.Gross. Opening the door, the first thing to hit him was the dim glow of a television. He stepped into the living room, his brow raised, to find Hellboy, upright and wrapped in the parka that he'd worn, staring at the screen. A cartoon.

"What're you . . ."

"Ssh." Hellboy gave him a rather pointed look, before looking back at the screen.

"He didn't talk words, he went 'boing' boing' instead . . ." the TV said, in the rather traditional, older cartoon narrator voice.

The cartoon was ancient, and had a penchant for rhyming. 'Gerald McBoing Boing.'

"What on earth is this?" John voiced aloud, a bemused grin on his face.

Hellboy growled at the young agent, glaring once more, before turning back to the screen.

John shrugged, still standing and watching the cartoon. He got as far as the boy being offered a job by a strange man who claimed to own a radio station, and was dressed in a long trench coat. The jokes wrote themselves.

"I . . .I can't believe you're watching this." He said, chuckling.

And that did it. Before he could yelp, or run from the room, Red had moved off of the couch, across the room, and put him in a headlock. Dragging him over to the couch, and throwing him down roughly, John barely had time to protest as he saw Hellboy turn, and promptly sit, sticking him between the demon's broad back, and the couch, the tail tucked over him to insure he stuck still.

"Ack . . .Red . . .this hurts . . ."

Helboy adjusted slightly, purposely grinding John against the couch, making his message very clear.

"Urk . . ." John whimpered, struggling briefly before resigning to his fate, knowing full well that he wasn't moving until the red behemoth's show was over. However long that would take.

The program went on for a whole half-hour. A whole half-hour of John being stuck beneath that great red lump. He had time to think, at least, about the dream. For that's what it was, a dream. Nothing more. Finally, the credits rolled. The show was over. Hellboy pulled himself up, reaching around to lift John up by the front of his shirt, setting him on the floor carefully before plopping back where he had been.

"Now, what did we learn?"

John glared at him, taking a seat in the reclining chair.

"That you're backside is both fat and functional?"

Hellboy chuckled, hitting a button on the remote. The ancient TV flickered, then turned off.

"Good answer. So, what'cha doin' up so early, anyway?"

John shrugged, staring at the now dead TV.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Aww, bad dreams?" Hellboy whined, mocking him.

"Something like," John said, his teeth gritted, "you're really an ass, you know that?"

Hellboy grinned. "Nah, just got a years worth of torture to make up for. Wanna talk about 'em, Squirt?"

John shook his head, still staring off into space.

"Terrorists hurting puppies. Terrorist puppy hurters."

Hellboy shrugged. "Whatever."

They sat in silence, for a moment.

"You really look like shit, you know."

John raised an eyebrow.

"Thanks, HB. Really . . ."

Hellboy shook his head, rolling his eyes. "No, I mean you look exhausted. You should go back to bed."

John reached up, rubbing his swollen eyes softly. "Don't think I could if I wanted to, honestly."

Hellboy pursed his lips. "Well, you can stay in here, if you want. I was just about to catch some z's myself."

John rolled his eyes. "How generous of you, to offer me a room in my own home."

Hellboy leaned back stretching across the couch the hit the small lamp that set at the end, bathing the room in darkness. "What can I say? I'm a giver."

John leaned the reclining chair back, curling up against it, the sound of Hellboy's breathing the only sound in the room.

"What were you doing up this late, anyway?" he said quietly, whispering into the dark.

"Watchin' old cartoons. 's the only time they come on, anymore."

"Yeah, but come on. That one was older than I am."

"Not older than me, Boy Scout."

John thought about this, staring off into black. It was true, Hellboy was much older than he was. 'The things he's seen . . .' he thought to himself, almost brimming with questions at the thought.

"Just don't make 'em like they used to . . ." Hellboy said, sounding almost nostalgic, shifting slightly on the couch which promptly groaned and squeaked under his weight. "I like Doctor Seuss, anyway."

John grinned. "Figures you would."

"Best guy at glorifying the freaks . . ."

John nodded, lost in thought. The cartoon, from what he could see from behind Red's rather sizeable back, had been about a young boy who, despite having the strange handicap of only being able to make sounds, not words, manages to find a place for himself in the world, even though he was originally an outcast, and a burden on his parents.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Oh, um, nothing . . .just thinking."

"Whatever."

And beyond that, the copyright at the end of the credits had said 1950. Hellboy was found in 1944, so . . .

"You saw that when you were six, right?""

A grunt.

"Yeah. Right after Father and I left New Mexico."

"New Mexico?"

"Yeah . . .father and I stayed on a military base there."

John wondered, for a moment, why they'd left. He decided not to press the matter.

"I can see why you like it, then . . ."

Another grunt.

"Are you going to shut up, and get some sleep, or am I going to have to make you?"

John turned a little red, but decided that Hellboy was right. He turned on his side, and closed his eyes, falling asleep quickly to the sound of Hellboy's breathing.

The car was cramped, most of the space taken up by Hellboy and his rather bulky attire, leaving just enough room for Myer's to functionally drive. If he'd had his way, the red idiot would have walked back to Newark. Hellboy, on the other hand, had rejected this plan. So, somehow, they'd both managed to squeeze into the Bureau car, with Hellboy tilting his head down so that he would fit.

Two hours later, though, and the neck pains were getting to him. So John, being the merciful soul that he was, pulled into a service station and allowed Hellboy to move to the back, where he had a little more room to stretch out across the seats.

"Better, now?" John said, annoyed, as he climbed back into the drivers seat, putting the car into drive and pulling back onto the highway.

Hellboy grunted, cracking his neck before leaning his massive back against the window.

"These things weren't exactly made for a guy my size."

John nodded. "I know, sorry. If," he gave Hellboy a rather sharp glance in the mirror, "I'd known I would have someone else riding with me, I would have requisitioned a larger vehicle."

Hellboy returned the glance. "Well, better I came than if I didn't. Why don't you stop acting so victimized and get over it, already?"

John, for a moment, felt like he should be angry at the demon's blatant disregard for his feelings. But this was Hellboy.

"Well, I appreciate you coming, I'll admit. Wouldn't kill you to be a bit more gracious, though."

Hellboy chuckled. "Gracious ain't in my nature, boy scout."

John rolled his eyes. "Too clogged by the selfish, right?"

"Sure thing."

They drove on in silence, John rolling the window down to allow the warm breeze to run over them. "Well, fun road trip, in any case."

"Road trip, huh? Heh, guess so. How much farther to home?"

"An hour and a half, I think. Maybe a little more."

Hellboy grunted, resting his chin on his massive chest, sighing softly before nodding off into sleep.

John looked in the rear-view mirror at the sleeping giant, tracing his features with his eyes. Hellboy really was an interesting individual. One that he was, admittedly, drawn to. But not in a romantic way. It was more hero worship, than anything else.

"Yeah . . .hero . . ." he mumbled to himself, looking in the mirror at the already snoring Eskimo sprawled out in the back of the car.

They arrived at the Bureau at pretty much the time that John had predicted, late afternoon or thereabouts, and proceeded to move quietly into the garage and park, without consequence. John turned to the back seat, rousing the sleeping giant cautiously, before the two of them stepped out of the car. So far, so good. They moved cautiously into the main Bureau, like children that had stayed out past their curfews.

John leaned to Hellboy as they entered the main hall.

"You think they'll be-"

"Mad?" the familiar voice of Tom Manning rang out.

He was standing in front of the door that led to Professor Broom's study, and to Hellboy's room, his arms crossed, his foot tapping.

"We saw you coming in on the monitors." he said, walking forward to stand in front of Hellboy, before placing a finger squarely on his chest.

"Going AWOL, stealing government property, near-exposing yourself to a countless number of civilians, breaking government property and surely more domestic and traffics laws than I can count." his brow was hard and furrowed, his fingers digging into a bemused Hellboy's chest. Then, the frown shifted to a smile. "Good to have you back, Red."

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigar and offering it to Hellboy, who took it with a grin. "Good to be back, I guess."

John smiled, happy to see the situation resolved in such a way. The smile shrank, though, as Manning turned to him. "Good things Myers is here to do the paperwork for all your transgressions."

With that said, Manning let out a great laugh before walking down the hall away from them, still chuckling to himself, leaving John to bite his lip and accept his fate. Well, it was better than being fired.

The two of them stood in the hall, mute, before Red spoke.

"So what're you up to now, Boy Scout?"

John shrugged. "Probably going to go get started on your dinner, why?"

Hellboy shook his head.

"Just wondering. Any plans for tonight?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"No . . .why?"

Hellboy grinned. "No reason. Keep it that way, though."

And with that, Hellboy too strolled off down the hallway, in the direction of the study and Abe's tank, leaving John to stare quizzically at his back, wondering what he meant.

Hellboy strolled into the study, whistling softly, and immediately peered about for Abe. Not reading. Not swimming. It appeared that, for all intents and purposes, Abraham Sapien had vacated the premises. But Hellboy knew better. He strolled up to the glass, slowly, before knocking on it lightly.

"Abe. Abe, come out."

Nothing. He knocked a little louder.

"Abe, come on, I know you're in there."

Nothing. He growled softly.

"Come on Abe, you're behind tempered glass. I can't smash you. Yet."

"Red, we both know that you could get through tempered glass with little difficulty," the amphibious man's voice said, calmly, as he drifted into view.

"Yeah. And you can start talking now, giving me all the reasons I shouldn't."

Abe shrugged, softly. "Because it all worked out for the better, and you and John Myers are now closer friends because of it, as well as it having the added benefit of saving both yours and his jobs?"

Hellboy crooked an eyebrow and nodded. "Those are good reasons."

"I'm good at what I do, Red. Now, how did Quantico go?"

Hellboy shrugged, taking a seat in one of the nearby chairs. "Alright, I guess. Some shouting, some glaring, some cartoons. No biggie. Why?

Abe smirked, softly, though it was hard to tell given his bizarre appearance. "No reason. So, nothing out of the ordinary?"

Hellboy shook his head.

"Nope. Or at least, nothing I can think of."

He yawned, loudly. "Think I'll go back to my room, though. Long day."

Abe nodded, swimming back in the direction of his sleeping chambers. "Fair enough. Will John be through, later?"

Hellboy shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe."

And as he watched Red's retreating back, Blue cracked a grin. In a rare instance of abusing his power, he'd heard what the demon had really meant. Something much akin to "I hope so."

John entered Hellboy's room, as per usual, pushing the ridiculously over-stuffed food cart, weighted down with all manner foods that had been, of course, expressly condoned by the demon himself. Thankfully, someone had taken over his duties while he was gone and changed out the various litter boxes, and cleaned away any discarded cigar butts. Red was digging through a box near one of the many TV sets when John entered, not bothering to look up.

John, despite having done the same job for over a year now, still felt awkward when he wasn't immediately addressed by the demon. Like he shouldn't speak, unless spoken too.

"Uh, dinner, HB."

"Just leave it there, I'm busy." came the big man's voice, though he didn't turn.

John nodded, raising an eyebrow at the man's strange behavior, but decided to shrug it off. He began walking towards the door, figuring that he could pick up the cart later.

"Hey, Boy Scout, wait up."

John turned, as Hellboy stood, walking to him briskly.

"Where ya goin'?"

"Um . . .out? I dunno, why?"

Hellboy frowned. "Thought we were hangin' out tonight."

John gazed at him suspiciously for a moment, but the suspicion soon became confusion.

"We were? Since when?"

The demon shifted slightly, rubbing the back of his head. "I asked if you had any plans tonight."

"Oh, right, that. You wanted to . . .hang out?"

Hellboy nodded.

"Yeah, I mean . . .that's what friends do, right?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"I um . . .I guess so. Wh-what did you have in mind?"

Hellboy shrugged. "Cartoons."

John blinked, unsure of where exactly this was coming from.

"S-sure, sounds fine I guess . . ."

Hellboy grinned, walking back over the box he'd been digging through before coming up with several clearly ancient VHS tapes, tapes that looked old enough to barely be considered VHS.

"What're those?"

"Old cartoons. Father had access to all sorts of stuff the government were using for themselves. He managed to swipe some, and made me these when I was a kid."

John nodded, tilting his head. It seemed very unlike the Professor to steal, but when it came to Hellboy . . .it wouldn't be entirely surprising.

"Alright, fair enough."

John took a seat carefully on the couch in Hellboy's room, making sure not to disturb any sleeping felines, before making himself comfortable. Hellboy, on the other hand, wasted no time in popping the first tape into an equally ancient looking player, before jogging over to the food cart and grabbing himself something. As the first bits of static on the tape cleared, and the cartoon proper began rolling, Hellboy plopped himself down on the couch as well, opposite John. He offered him a slice of ham, which John politely turned down. It was old, 50's era Disney stuff. A bit childish, but enjoyable none the less. For a while the two of them sat in perfect silence, watching the cartoon and, in Hellboy's case, devouring a cart-load of food. Finally, as the end credits of the first tape rolled, John broke the silence.

"You . .. have you ever . . .?"

Hellboy sensed that the question was coming. "Not really," he grunted. "There were some other kids back in New Mexico, but I wasn't there long. I've never really . . .gotten to hang out like this, before."

John nodded, feeling a slight knot forming in his stomach. It was depressing, thinking of Hellboy living sixty years of his life having little to no interaction with someone he could call a friend.

"I mean, there's Abe, but he's more interested in reading about African tribal magicks than cartoons or football. Clay would usually have something better to do. And Liz . . ." The big demon seemed to slump slightly causing the knot in John's stomach to tighten again, ever so slightly, "she used to watch them all the time with me. But I guess . . .I guess I was busier watching her, than the TV."

John nodded. "I . . .I understand."

They turned back, watching the static on the screen flicker for a moment.

"You think that we could hang out more often?"

John froze up, slightly. "Y-yeah . . .of course."

Hellboy grinned.

"Good."

He got up, walking to the ancient player and exchanging the tape with another one, the sounds of cartoon antics soon drowning out the awkward silence.

John thought on what he'd just been told. What he'd just been asked. For the first time, it felt like Hellboy had actually opened up for a moment, a rare occurrence indeed to happen to him, of all people. He thought about the significance of these tapes, what they meant to him. Professor Broom, and Liz . . .and now him. He smiled. Maybe they really were friends, after all.

They watched cartoons for hours after that, before John finally fell asleep, his head resting comfortably on the arm of the sofa. Two feet away from him was Hellboy, asleep with his chin on his chest. The TV continued to banter on long after they'd fallen asleep, entertaining no one but itself.


	5. A Choice

Writer's Apology: OMG Updates. Yeah, I know. I'm a total d-bag. I'm the worst person in the world, this sucks, I suck, and if there is anyone out there that is still going to read this, then I owe them a big, sloppy blowjob. (Not from me. See, I know this guy who . . .we'll talk about that later.

Anyway, yeah.

Chapter 5

Hellboy leapt through the door frame, rolling immediately to the left and propping himself back-to-wall, as a heavy thunk sounded behind him, the bolt from a crossbow flying through the air, impaling the spot where he had been just a second earlier and sticking in the opposite wall.

"Freakin' Russians," he muttered under his breath, before rolling away again as the sound of another thunk rang out, this arrow now sticking halfway out of the wall where he had been sitting. It wasn't so much that he was threatened by the bolts. More that it would probably hurt like hell, and he would much rather resolve the situation without human bloodshed. That, however, was proving to be easier said than done.

"Keep running, beast!", came a man's voice in thick Russian, deep and booming, "None can escape from the wrath of God for long! The unholy seed that spawned you will not shield you from divine fury!"

Hellboy couldn't help but chuckle under his breath. Truth, that. And the man just kept going, never once letting up his tyrade about God's divine wrath.

"I'm on your side! The Lycan is as much my enemy as yours!" he shouted over the man's ranting, his massive lungs lending him a bit more volume than that of a normal human. When his words were met with another load thunk, and a stinging pain in his arm, he gave up on the idea of talking sense into the man, instead opting to pick up a nearby wardrobe and place it in front of the doorway, blocking the man's pursuit.

"On my side!? You dare try such a pathetic trick on my, demon!? If you are on my side, where were you when the beast slew my little Nadia!? Or her mother!? Their blood is on your hands, whether it be on your lips or not, and I will repay this debt in full! A crack, like the sound of a foot connecting with wood, echoed throughout the house, as the man kicked the wardrobe, which threatened to splinter beneath his foot.

A pang of guilt rushed through Hellboy at the man's words. He knew he'd have to face this eventually. The consequences of his year-long 'vacation.' While he'd been sulking, this man's family had been devoured. And their blood was indeed on his hands. He shook his head, trying to push these thoughts from his mind, and focus on the present.

"I am sorry that I have not come sooner. That I could not save this village. Please, allow me to help you and begin to repay this debt. I want to kill your monster!"

Another loud crash, as the man again tried to break through, bellowing like an injured animal.

"You speak of slaying monsters! There is one monster here that must be slain! For two months we are plagued by an unseen beast, who defies our greatest efforts to track it. For two months I watch as everyone I know is taken silently in the night. And now, a demon shows himself to me, and tells me that he is here to help!? You will pay for mocking me, monster, and your blood will flow for every life you've taken!"

Another thunk, and the sound of splintering wood, and Hellboy felt a bolt slide deep into his shoulder. He grunted, reaching up to pull it out and toss it aside without flinching, the pain only marginal, really. What he was more concerned about was what the man had said.

Lycans were, by very nature, savage creatures. What modern culture called the "werewolf" where essentially Lycans, though they were not nearly as . . .dramatic. A Lycan would often never know what he was, and near-always returned to the spot where he'd fallen asleep. Most Lycans that where killed simply fell asleep one night, during the full moon, and never woke up. Never came back. But when they were active . . .they were loud. They were vicious. They would keep their victims alive for hours, raping and tearing them limb from limb, making as much savage and animalistic noise as possible. They were not creatures that came silently in the night.

And then it all came together.

Hellboy stood up straight, leaning his neck back to pop it loudly.

"You're a sad man," he shouted, making sure the man heard him, "chasin' after monsters in the dark, alone, monsters that you'll never catch."

Hellboy clenched his stone fist tightly, before effortlessly slamming it through the wall, showering the man on the other side with dust and debris, before stepping through it calmly.

The Russian was an older man, built from a lifetime of hard, rural labor. His hair was flecked with grey, and his facial hair abundant, and thick. He was bedecked in leather. Around his waist was a belt covered in various bolts and other implements of hunting. He recovered quickly from the shock of the demon bursting through the wall, and immediately had his crossbow pointed at Hellboy's chest.

"It seems I have caught this monster, creature. At last you cease your charade and fight me like a man, instead of slinking about in the shadows and trying to fill my head with lies." The man, who assumed such a masculine, powerful stance, was visibly shaking in the larger male's wake. "I-I will slay you face to face, man to beast."

Hellboy sighed.

"Actually, I think there's something you need to see." He reached down with his normal hand to retrieve a small, clear vial from his belt, his eyes narrowing slightly as he held it out in front of him, and shook it. "Do you have any idea where you were when the beast attacked?"

The Russian took a step back, leveling his crossbow directly at the vial. "No more tricks, monster! No more lies!"

Hellboy sighed again.

"Didn't think so," he said, popping the top from the vial, shaking it again. "Holy water."

Another loud thunk, and the sound of glass shattering in his hand. He looked down at the arrow jutting from his side, and at his hand, now soaked and dripping holy water and littered with tiny pieces of glass. He raises an eyebrow and grunted.

"Huh. Doesn't hurt me."

He lashed out suddenly, swinging the drenched arm at the air in front of him, sending flecks of the liquid flying off him and through the air towards the man. They hit, and he doubled over, screaming and cursing in Russian as his skin boiled and smoked where the holy water had hit him, his hands reaching up to claw at the burning sensation in his face.

"Sure hurts you."

Hellboy stepped forward calmly, wrenching the crossbow from the man's hand with little to no effort, before crushing it in his right hand and throwing the pieces aside. He looked the screaming man once over, before nodding, and delivering a punishing kick to the man's chest, sending him flying backwards into a wall, which splintered on impact. The man's body finally came to rest outside in the snow, a great hole in the wall where he flown through.

Hellboy grunted, reaching down to pull the arrow out of his side, and dust the shards of glass from his hand. He walked towards the hole in the wall slowly, peering through to stare at the writhing body in the snow.

"Getting up? Are we gonna do this?"

The body twitched for a moment longer, then went still.

"Guess not."

Pushing one of the boards aside and stepping out into the cold snow, Hellboy shivered slightly from the chill Russian air. The man was still breathing. Hellboy's hand drifted down to fiddle with the Samaritan's trigger absentmindedly. There was a long pause, as he stared down at the now almost completely still form of what had formerly been a normal farmer, minding his own business and living his life in peace. What was now a monster, a creature much fouler than the poor man could have imagined.

He shook his head, looking up at the gathering clouds. Fourteen days to the next full moon. By that time the man would be so far into BPRD holding that he'd never even touch anyone again, monster or no. His hand left the Samaritan, reaching to his belt to hit his communicator.

"This is Red, requesting pick-up. Subject has been incapacitated, not neutralized. Send me the paddy wagon, boys, let's get this guy home."

John grunted loudly, his face a mask of pain as he lifted himself up one final time, before collapsing on the ground in a heap, sweating and panting with exhaustion. He'd lost count of how many push-ups that was a long time ago, not that it really mattered anyway. He lay there for a moment, catching his breath and enjoying the feeling of being stationary, for once.

It had only been two weeks since he'd gotten back to the Bureau, and since Hellboy had once again become an active operative, and already John had visited every continent, driven through at least twelve states, and been spewed with the entrails of at least three different kinds of demon, all in the interest of catching up with the near infinite number of reports that had been back-logged since Moscow, assignments that couldn't be taken on by ordinary agents, or even Abe alone. The near-constant barrage of it was taking it's toll on not only him, but Hellboy as well.

"134," Abe said, looking up briefly from his book. He was stretched lazily across one of the weight benches in the BPRD's gym, far enough away from John so as not to pick up any stray thoughts or emotions inadvertently. Given John's current state, this was probably a prudent decision.

"You serious?" John breathed, pulling himself painfully to his feet and taking a seat on one of the benches, careful to leave the distance between them.

"Not really. Thought you could use a confidence boost."

"Figures," John said, hissing softly from a particularly harsh throb in his left arm. It still hurt, sometimes, when he stressed it. Being side-swiped by a car on his first mission had been his first real experience with that kind of pain, one that he didn't hope to repeat. It hadn't done any _real_ damage to his arm, that anyone could tell, just enough to make it hurt on occasion.

He looked worse for wear, his eyes sunken and exhausted, his frame slumped down ever so slightly in a perpetual slouch, his hair losing some of it's neatness to fall limp and disjointed over his forehead. He'd been pushing himself for the last two weeks, hard, and was nearing his breaking point.

And that wasn't even taking the dreams into account.

None of them were as extreme as the first, the one he'd had in Quantico. No, no outright nightmares since then. These were the normal, run-of-the-mill dreams. But something was off. Unplaceably. Something was watching him, waiting on the edge of his fringe vision, waiting to move closer when his back was turned. He thought he caught of a glimpse of it once, before it dissipated into thin air, and what he'd caught in that moment was enough to make him not want to try it again.

Trevor Bruttenholm.

"You're unwell, John."

He looked up, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"You haven't been sleeping. Something is troubling you?"

John shook his head, reaching up to wipe the sweat from his brow.

"It's nothing. Just a little insomnia."

"Would this 'insomnia' happen to stem from something large and red?"

John eyes narrowed, slightly.

"Abe, don't-"

"_Don't get psychic with me, bub. _Is that what you were going to say?"

John stopped, trailing off. Abe's voice had deepened in his impression, something that John had never heard before. He had never known Abe to really change his pitch, and had indeed assumed that it was outside of the man's ability. To hear him do so, and in a terrible impersonation of Hellboy no less, made him crack a smile. Abe, though it was hard to tell, was smiling to.

"Telepathy has nothing to do with it. You _look_ tired. And with the recent trend in assignments, it's not suprising."

John's smiled faded slightly, but he nodded.

"Right. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. It's your mental turmoil, not mine."

John nodded, laying back across the bench lazily, closing his eyes and yawning loudly. True enough. Though he wasn't sure what he thought of the term "mental turmoil."

A siren blared over the BPRD loudspeaker, causing him to jump slightly. That particular noise meant that Hellboy was back from a mission. He was halfway through jumping to his feet when he caught a look from Abe, instantly slowing himself, trying to look a little less . . .eager.

"Red's back."

"I know."

John shifted slightly. Abe had a way of responding to him, of speaking so calmly and casually, that it still set him on edge sometimes. Like the man knew more than he was saying.

"Think . . I'll go greet him."

Abe shrugged, lifting his book back up to his face.

"Suit yourself . . ."

John gave Abe an uncertain look, wondering. Did Abe know more than he was telling? He shook the thoughts out of his head. For Abe to know something, it would imply that there was something to know. And that wasn't something that John was ready to think about. Especially not now.

Hellboy grumbled, shifting his smaller hand from his pocket, to his hair, and back to his pocket, trying specifically to be as loud with his footsteps as he could, and to avoid looking anywhere but directly in front of his feet. He never felt comfortable in the containment area. Not with all the monsters and demons mere feet away from him, banging against the walls of their prison, their anguished howls audible, even through the impenetrable steel. It wasn't so much that he was afraid. He was fairly certain that, if the steel suddenly became less-than-impenetrable, he could whip them all back down with next-to-no effort. No, what bothered him was the grim knowledge that, given even the most minuet change in fate, he could be one of them, a monster, caged like an animal to stop him from hurting anyone. That is, if the world was lucky. It could be much, much worse than that.

Behind him, two BPRD field agents were frog-marching the groggy, semi-conscious Russian between them, their free hands poised and ready to draw their firearms at the first sign of danger. He avoided looking at them too. Surely, somewhere, there were rules against this kind of thing. To be placed in BPRD containment was a fate befitting a monster, or a demon. This man would only be that for one night out of the month. And yet he'd live out the rest of his (rather assuredly short) like a beast. Hellboy tried to ignore another twang of guilt, deciding to redirect it into hatred for the disgusting little man swaggering ahead of him.

As long as he'd known him, he'd called him 'Warden.' Or, when the man was not nearby, 'the Bulldog.' The name was, at the very least, fitting. The man was short and squat, his face rounded and possessing multiple chins

that shook with each step he took, or word that he spoke. Unlike most of the BPRD, the Bulldog had pretty much dispensed with formality entirely, doing his job in little more than a coffee-stained t-shirt and jeans, black leather boots finishing off the "unbearable asshole' motif that the man had developed. When he walked, he walked like a king surveying his kingdom, a sneering, arrogant, pig of a man, delighting in cruelty and sadism. Hellboy had, unsurprisingly, never developed much affection for him. Even less so, now, as it was the Bulldog's decision what to do with the prisoner. And Hellboy had no doubt in his mind what that decision would be.

"So how long's it been since you were down here, Big Red? Two years? Three years?" the man said over his shoulder, a spitefully cheerful tone to his voice, his piggish eyes twinkling with maliciousness. He was fully aware what Hellboy thought of him, and he delighted in it. Perhaps because he thought no better of Hellboy.

"Sixteen months," Hellboy mumbled, idling contemplating shooting the man in the chest. He thought better of it.

"Tch, I'm hurt. Figured you'd want to inspect the new systems we've got set up down here."

Hellboy cocked a brow, though kept his voice even. He didn't want to man to know that he was intrigued.

"New systems?"

"Ah, hell ya," the bulldog said, his voice swelling with pride, "they've been giving us new shit like nobody's business. Guess after the professor kicked the bucket they decided it was time to start cracking down a little harder."

Hellboy, without realizing it, had tightening his hand around the Samaritan's grip, his mouth lifting into a snarl.

"Show me," he said, tersely, not trusting himself to say anything else, without physical assault becoming an issue.

"With pleasure," the filthy little man said, walking over to one of the steel doors and rapping on it loudly. From the other side, a hideous shrieking noise rang out, thankfully muffled by the thick door. "This is my favorite, see, when an inmate is making too much racket, or causing a commotion, we just do this . . ." he pressed a few buttons on the access panel beside the door. A loud buzzing echoed from the cell, and the shrieking seemed to double in intensity, before both sounds went silent.

Hellboy shifted, his snarl lessening slightly, as a sickening feeling crawled into his gut. "And that was?"

"Well, the floors have been electrolyzed, see? So all I have to do is press a few buttons, and the damn things gets the shock of it's life!"

The man was grinning in perverse glee and, again, Hellboy contemplated shooting him in the chest. Surely the consequences couldn't be so severe. It's not like anyone could possibly love this foul thing. No family or friends to worry about. The contents of his stomach shifted once again. The bastard was planning on putting the Russian that he'd captured in one of these cells. Never mind the fact that he was a normal man over 90 of the time. He shifted, puffing his chest out slightly and standing straight, to reach his full height.

"I hope you're not plannin' on telling me that you plan to put our new Russian friend in there." he said, coolly, trying to maintain composure whilst still appearing intimidating.

The man's grin grew. The demon had taken the bait. He puffed out his own chest, his lip curling into a strange cross between a snarl and a sneer. "Sure am thinkin' about it, actually."

Hellboy looked the man over, studying him. He'd seen plenty of guys like this in his full 60 years of life on earth. Angry, pitiful, disgusting little slimeballs, compensating for some camp counselor that couldn't keep his hands to himself, or the like. "You might want to start re-thinkin', pal."

The Warden turned, letting out a deep belly laugh, strolling down another three doors and leaving a steamy Hellboy in his wake. He stopped in front of an empty cell, leaning forward to tap a few numbers into the access panel, shaking his head.

"I think you got the order of things all backward, boy."

Hellboy wasted no time in closing the distance between them, making sure that he was positioned between the Warden and the two agents moving the Russian.

"How's that?" he growled.

The man stepped closer, until his face was mere inches from Hellboy's, looking up into those gold-colored eyes, now narrowed and piercing.

"See, you're not the one that gives orders down here. Or anywhere, for that matter. You wanna know why," he said, moving a little closer, the man's stench now burning Hellboy's nostrils, eliciting a growl from the depths of his throat. "Cause I may not have the same work experience. Hell, I might not even be as qualified. But me," his hand came up to grip Hellboy's chin, causing his entire body to stiffen in revulsion, "I'm human. And in the end," the hand came down in a soft, condescending slap, "you're just a big ugly monster."

Hellboy could feel the roar building in his chest, his hand reaching down to find the Samaritan's handle. He was going to kill the bastard, right here. There was no two shakes about it. He was going to make sure that that sneer was plastered over every inch of the cell block. And every goddamn monster would get a taste of him.

"What's going on here?"

Hellboy felt himself jump slightly, John's voice catching him off guard, enough to let the fire in his gut settle, and his hand to slip off of his weapon, falling down to rest at his side. He and the Warden turned in unison towards the direction of the voice, each raising a respective eyebrow, surprised at the interruption. John was approaching fast, his eyes narrowed and his muscles visibly tense with aggression.

'His muscles, damn.' Hellboy thought briefly. John was still in his work-out attire, or what Hellboy assumed to be his workout attire. He'd only seen the kid out of uniform once or twice in the months that he had known him. Boy Scout was usually a stickler for formality. Now, though, he must have been in a hurry. For what, he couldn't imagine. He noticed the Warden shift, re-directing his body weight to John, perhaps trying to counter the challenge to his authority.

"Can I help you with something, Boy Scout?"

John felt his stomach rise and his ears burn, slightly. For Hellboy to call him by that rather demeaning nickname was one thing. For this dirtbag to call him by it was another thing entirely. He reached up to adjust an invisible necktie, a nervous tic he'd picked up over the years when attempting to calm himself. Realizing that there we no tie there currently, he let his hands drop, steadying himself mentally.

"Agent Myers."

The man snorted, nodding.

"Whatever you say."

John straightened his back slightly, trying to look as professional as he could, despite the gym clothes.

"You could start by explaining why you intend to use level 5 security procedures in order to contain a level 2 threat. Or why you have neglected to perform full search and interrogation procedures on a subject of full human level sentience. Or, for that matter," John said tersely, giving the man a quick once over, "why you are not clothed in accordance to dress and grooming regulations?"

The man looked flabbergasted, unable to process all the questions at once. He did, however, pick up on the last one. "You're one to ta-"

"I, Sir, am not on duty. You, however are. Or at least, I have to assume you are, if you're going to be performing containment procedures on a-"

"Don't you tell me what to do!" the man shouted, a thin line of spittle dripping from his chin, his neck and face turning bright red. It was easy enough for him to get to Hellboy, but the kid had clearly got his goat. It made Hellboy nervous, as if the man might attack the kid at any moment, "I will not be ordered around by that _thing's_," he pointed at Hellboy, "bitch."

John stood still, smiling, almost pointedly at the man. Hellboy had shifted his weight to his toes, ready to spring in if it came to physical contact, but John seemed surprisingly composed. Scarily, even.

"Now, _that_ is certainly in violation of proper conduct." The bulldog's face was pale, and his lip quivering. He knew he'd been caught. "I'll tell you what, though. You put him," gesturing to the Russian, "where he belongs, respectfully and considerately given his current human status, and I won't have to alert Director Manning to your breach of conduct. Sound fair?"

He extended in his hand in a mock gesture of good will, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. The warden, for what it was worth, managed to swallow down his fury and avoided punching him, though it clearly took some doing. Sending a sharp glance at the two men holding the Russian, both of which clearly confused and uncertain of their next action, he bellowed out a quick, "What're you, idiots? Get 'im in a normal cell," before stalking away, sending a quick glance over his shoulder. "Actions have consequences, you damn fool."

John, looking entirely proud of himself, began to head back to the main hall to return to his workout, leaving a flabbergasted Hellboy in his wake, still uncertain of who this new character was, and what he had done with the real John Myers.

"Drop it, Red."

"No, seriously, when did you grow a pair? I've never seen you act that way to anybody, much less a fellow agent."

John sighed softly, reaching up to adjust a stray lock of hair that had strayed from the perfectly put together rest of his hair and was now hanging across his forehead. As soon as he brushed it up and away, it fell back down again, deciding it was perfectly comfortable where it was. John decided to ignore it.

"He ticked me off, that's all. I mean, it's not like I was going to punch him or anything like some people I know would have."

He gave a playful grin at the red ape. They were walking side-by-side down the hallway back to the gym, Hellboy having caught up with John and berating him every second after, trying to ascertain the origins of his recently developed testicles. Now, though, he grinned back, grateful for the teasing. Since departing for Russia, he'd felt uneasy. He didn't like going on missions by himself anymore. Something about it felt awkward, and unsteady, like he was all out of balance with his work. Now, though, he felt better. He wasn't going to analyze the situation any further than that.

"I wasn't going to punch him."

"You were thinking about it."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't have actually done it."

He sounded almost defensive. John nodded, patting the giant on the arm.

"Yeah, I know you wouldn't have. Just joking."

Hellboy nodded softly, studying the other man with a far off expression for the faintest of moments, before turning his attention away, to nowhere in particular.

"Besides, if anyone was going to do the punching it would have been him. You're lucky that I was there, watching your back Scout."

John shrugged, flexing his exposed biceps slightly. A gesture he was only faintly aware of.

"I can take care of myself."

Hellboy chuckled, nodding.

"Sure you can, kid."

For whatever reason, the comment didn't sit well with John and, without really thinking through the consequences of it, he punched Hellboy in the arm. It was not a full-on punch, but it was enough to hurt. Or at least, it would have been, had he not been punching Hellboy. Within seconds, he found himself pinned against the wall, completely immobilized by the man's bulk. He was almost tempted to struggle, but he knew that it wouldn't do any good.

"You punched me." Hellboy said, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Let me go, Red." John said, sounding almost exasperated at his own lack of foresight. Of course Red would take this as a challenge.

"Say you're sorry."

"No, Red, let me go."

"Say it, kid," he said again, tightening his grip a little bit, allowing more of his weight to press into John, increasing the pressure between him and the wall, "I'm not letting you up until your say it.

"Red, I'm not-"

John found himself cut off mid-sentence, as he turned his head slightly and found himself mere inches away from Hellboy's face, the larger male's hot breath flowing across his face and neck, his broad chest easily dwarfing the smaller agent's frame. For a moment, he felt his stomach rise up in his chest, and his head become muddled. For a moment, a strange, impossible thought crept its way into his mind. Something stupid. Something irresponsible, and unprofessional, and so, so wrong that his mind couldn't even wrap itself around it sufficiently. For a moment, he felt his face move a little closer, and lips purse ever so slightly.

And then an alarm sounded.

"Shit!" Hellboy shouted, breaking away from John wordlessly and darting down the hallway. The Bureau had set it up in such a way that, were an alarm to be sounded, a series of lights built into the wall would light up, creating a trail for security to follow in order to reach the source of the emergency.

John, for a second or two, did not move, the alarm barely even registering in his mind as something that related to him, personally. For those one or two seconds, he felt blank. Empty. Like some great part of his mind or soul had been torn away from him, taking with it his basic motor skills.

Then, it passed, and he was sprinting down the hallway as well, following the heavy thudding of Hellboy's boots, his hand wrapping around the handle to his pistol and his breath catching as he realized the direction that the lights were leading them. The Containment Area.

Everything that he'd ever read, or heard, or experienced involving werewolves told him that it was impossible. But, as he rounded the corner, past a small number of offices for the more bureaucratically oriented agents, he felt his gaze inexplicably drawn to one of the glass doors. And as time seemed to slow down, and his footfalls became more and more infrequent, he saw it through the glass, the sight of it sending powerful chills down his spine.

Professor Bruttenholm. Standing. Smiling.

And at that moment, his worst suspicions were confirmed.

"Shit," Hellboy muttered to himself, continuing to sprint down the hallway, not daring to look over his shoulder to check and see if John was keeping up.

"_What the hell was that?_"

It was like his mind had decided to take a brief vacation, and he was purely running on instinct. Strange, freaky, almost . . .no. He wasn't going to go that far. It wouldn't have ended in that. He had to be making more out of it than it was due. So, rather than pursue the subject, he ignored it. Instead, he focused on the matter at hand. It had to be the containment area. That was the only answer he could come up with. Not that that made any sense either. The full moon had long since passed, and the Russian couldn't be any less of a threat in his present condition. So it must have been some other beasty. Maybe the Warden's precious high-security cells had crapped out. That would be something. The thought of it brought a twisted smile to his lips.

The smile quickly dissipated, though, when he reached the doorway to the cell block. A barricade had been built up, composed mainly of agents, quaking in their shoes, their guns drawn and aimed inside the doorway. This was more serious than he had thought. He brushed aside them, wordlessly, and stepped into the hall. It was a nightmare, one of the worst messes that Hellboy had seen in a long time, perhaps the worst he'd ever seen whilst actually in Bureau headquarters. Fresh blood was smeared from one end of the hall to the other, that of both human and . . . other. Bones and organs spread periodically across the floor, and some of the bars of the lesser containment cells ripped clean out of the wall, their occupants devoured.

In the midst of it all, drenched in blood and other fluid that, perhaps for the better were unidentifiable, was a Lycan. Thick, corded muscle beneath a shag rug's worth of course, filthy fur, standing roughly four inches higher than Hellboy when erect, but stooped more often than not. In its hands (paws?) was the half-eaten body of an agent, butchered beyond what Hellboy could recognize. It had not been an easy death that much was certain. Hellboy felt a pang of nausea hit him as the creature took a bite of raw meat, but the feeling passed quickly. The creature was gruesome, but he'd seen worse. Much worse. He took a step closer, clearing his throat to catch the creature's attention.

"Hey, fuzzy."

The creature seemed to ignore him, being too intent on it's meal to pay much attention to this challenger. Indeed, it seemed thoroughly disinterested in the big, red giant.

"You're breaking the rules here, big boy. It aint your time of the month."

Still, the creature did not move. Hellboy was getting frustrated. Slowly, cautiously, he began to reach down for the Samaritan, hoping that he could finish this quickly.

"Alright, if you're gonna make this easy on me, I'm definitely not going to complain-"

The creature was fast. Impossibly fast. The moment that his hand had touched the handle to the gun, the creature had closed the distance, tossing aside its meal effortlessly and, before he had time to react, placing a firm punch straight into the demon's chest, sending him flying onto his back. It hurt. Hurt more than it had any business hurting, especially since it was Hellboy feeling the hurt. A critter had to be pretty damn tough to knock the breath out of him. This Lycan, this third rate Hollywood movie monster, had done it, stunning him long enough for the beast to close the distance once more. It hit him, open-handed and claws extended, across the face, tearing out a decent chunk of flesh and drawing out a roar of agony from the red behemoth.

Between the pain of the first hit, and the agony of the second, his hand had managed to find the handle to his weapon, and as the creature reared back to deliver a second blow, he raised it, prepared to fill the creature with every creature-repellant known to mankind. It was inexplicable how fast the creature's reaction time was. The moment that Hellboy's finger had wrapped around the trigger the creature was off of him, leaping backwards off of his chest and landing at his feet, ducking to avoid the bullet and wrapping it's claws around the demon's legs and turning, actually managing to lift and throw him against the opposite wall.

The various spots where the creature had sunk his claws into him ached fiercely, and there was a pounding ache in his skull where it had collided with the wall. Still, the creature had little clue who it was dealing with. It was fast, he'd give it that. He would just have to be faster.

He heard the creature running at him. Without bothering to raise himself off the floor he kicked off the wall, swinging his legs around to knock the creature off of it's. The creature's reaction time was off, and it worked. As the creature fell, Hellboy, gripping the Samaritan by it's barrel, swung the butt of the weapon out, catching the werewolf in the jaw with a punishing pistol-whip. For a moment, the creature seemed stunned by the force of the blow, and Hellboy wasted no time in exploiting that weakness, raising his booted foot up to catch the creature in it's groin, eliciting a howl of agony and causing the creature to stumble backwards. Seeing his opening, Hellboy flipped the gun in his hand, the barrel now aimed squarely at the creature's chest. One bullet would finish this.

His finger squeezed down around the trigger, millimeters away from sealing the were's fate. And it froze there. He wanted to pull the trigger. He wanted to, but somewhere in there was a man. Or, he thought there had been. With the man's transformation now, outside of the cycle, he wasn't sure anymore. But the thought was enough to give him pause.

Not so for John.

Three shots rang out, and the creature dropped, twitching for a moment before going still. Hellboy wondered, idly, if it had been him, if the Samaritan had gone off accidently or if he'd accidently pulled the trigger a little harder than he had intended. But he hadn't felt the gun kick. Hadn't heard the resounding 'boom' that the Samaritan gave off. For a moment, his stunned mind wondered if he had been the one to end the man . . .or beast's life. But then he glanced to his left, towards the door he'd entered from.

John had pushed past the agents and drawn his gun, sitting on the sidelines for as long as he could stand to. Clearly, moments ago, that line had been crossed. It was strange, Hellboy thought, how quickly the color could drain out of a normal human's face. He didn't have that luxury. He could see the man shaking, violently, his gun dropping to the ground with a clatter. Hellboy idly thought about moving to comfort him. And maybe he would have, had he not felt so firmly rooted to the spot where he sat. It was unclear what happened next, at least from Hellboy's perspective. A rush of agents, a flurry of noise, the sounds of pen on paper and nervous voices, raised in agitation and swiftly lowered in reverence to the grisly scene before them.

He could see John get swarmed by them, and for a moment was thankful that it wasn't him that was getting swarmed this time. This feeling faded as well, when Manning entered the hall.

"What the fuck happened in here!?" His voice sounded far off. Unimportant. He leaned down, pulling John up by his shoulders, "What the fuck is going on? Who's responsible for this?"

Hellboy didn't have to look twice. John had hung his head, "I-I'm sorry, I d-didn't . . ."

And that was all it took for Hellboy to get on his feet, closing the distance between himself and Manning in seconds, placing his great, stone hand on the man's back and pulling him, hard, off of John.

"Back off, asshole, before I-"

"Are you serious? The worst attack on Bureau premises in twelve years and you-"

"Cry me a goddamn river, Manning, I'm not gonna let you start flinging your bullshit at people just because-"

"You have _no_ idea the kind of trouble this is, the way you're acting is completely inexcusable-"

So embroiled were the two in their bickering, they didn't even notice John's departure. The way his limbs hung heavy. Or the way he proceeded to empty the contents of his stomach onto the hallway floor, his legs shaking beneath him.

John had been still for a long, long time, not wanting to think about the events of only a few hours prior. The first thing he'd done was to take a shower, to clean himself as thoroughly as he could manage. But that hadn't helped. He'd crawled into bed, but that hadn't helped. The covers felt stifling. He'd tried listening to music, or watching television, but both had seemed too loud. Too disturbing.

It wasn't that he'd never killed something before. Nor was it, particularly, the gruesomeness of the whole ordeal. It was the simple, undeniable truth that if he hadn't interfered, if he'd just kept his mouth shut, then both the man/werewolf/whatever he was, and the people that had fallen victim to him, would still be alive. Their blood was on his hands. And judging by the scene in the detention block, it would take more washing than he could ever manage to clean them.

He lay now on his bed, in his room, in Bureau headquarters. He'd grown used to living there, strange as it was. With his duties as Hellboy's liaison, it wasn't feasible to live away from headquarters.

Hellboy . . .

He hugged his knees up to his chest, and stared at the opposite wall, trying his hardest to burn a hole through it. It was too much. Too, too much. That thing, whatever it was, in the hallway. He'd been so close, and . . .

The door opened behind him. He didn't need to turn around to know who it was. There was only one person at the Bureau that would enter without knocking.

"You alright?"

" . . .what do you think?"

He felt his bed shift, drastically, as something massive set it's weight upon it.

"Fuck no."

John felt the words catch in his throat, and when they came out they were throaty and slow.

"'Bout sums it up."

He could feel the large male shift, now facing the opposite direction, leaving them back to back, as it were.

"It wasn't your fault."

"But-"

"It was mine-"

"No, you-"

"If I hadn't-"

"No!"

Before he could finish the last sentence John was up, a hand resting on Hellboy's shoulder, though quickly sliding off when he realized what he'd done.

"It wasn't . . .your fault."

Hellboy simply shrugged it off, still staring at the opposite wall, unable to meet the agent's eyes. It wasn't just about the death and destruction that the day had brought.

"Boyscout . . . John. About earlier," he said, turning to face John, who backed up immediately, as their faces were inches from touching, for a moment.

"Earlier. . .?"

"Did you . . .?"

"What?"

"I don't . . ."

"Me neither."

And then he was kissing John. It was soft, and cautious, and exploratory. It lasted for a matter of seconds.

"I . . ."

And a response.

"I . . ."

And he was kissing John again. Deeply, passionately, possessively.

And he was whole. All the emptiness, the sorrow, the doubt and blame and hurt from the past year melted away. If only for a moment.

Writers Note: Stay tuned folks. In the works, there's Part 2 to this little diddy, HELLBOY: REGRET.

It'll be awesome. When it shows up.


End file.
